


SCARLET, SONJA, SPIRAL, SILVER

by TheZev



Category: Avengers (Comics), Spider-Man (Comicverse), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2020-12-01 20:38:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20892419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheZev/pseuds/TheZev
Summary: Wanda Maximoff goes to the Parkers for help with an unusual problem, while Scott Summers find his relationship with Jean tested--and his relationship with Betsy Braddock heating up.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a long one, commissioned to be 60,000 words at least, so if you're interested, buckle in for the long haul. I chose to set this during the 90s. Not the literal 90s, but the Marvel universe 90s, or at least a rough approximation of such by someone who's not chapter and verse knowledgeable in 616 history. Give me a break, huh, I'm no Kurt Busiek. But, for reference, the Avengers are based on Kurt Busiek's run, the X-Men are based on the Jim Lee era, and Spider-Man is, oh, let's say about the time he was drawn by Todd McFarlene. Married to Mary Jane, not on any super-teams, but nah, no Clone Saga stuff. Even in fanfic, some things are just a little too perverse to write.

New York City. The calm before the storm.

Steve Rogers walked through the impeccably-kept halls of Avengers Mansion, sparing a thought for Jarvis’s underappreciated stewardship of the place. He wore a simple set of jeans and a plain white tee, the kind of cheap but sturdy clothing that was becoming a rarity this far from his own time, with his patch-elbowed jacket slung over his shoulder, drawing pad under his arm, and his trusty pencil in his hand.

Often times he would wear his Captain America uniform in the Mansion, considering himself on watch, but Clint had recently made an impassioned argument for the importance of taking some time away from the costume. Well, ‘impassioned argument’ on one hand, ‘insult’ on the other. But he did truly care. After all, Clint was right. Steve felt free now that he was literally shorn of his responsibilities, with no greater care at the moment than finding something pleasing to sketch with this oasis of free time.

He found inspiration quickly enough. He’d often considered Avengers Mansion the center of everything that was heroic and noble in human nature, and as if by some sympathetic vibration, it seemed to attract all that was good and pure to its halls. Wanda Maximoff sat on a couch in the Mansion’s gaming room. She had recently changed her costume to honor her Roma heritage and it couldn’t have been more becoming without being indecent.

Her headdress provided a measure of order in the midst of her wild shoulder-length curls, ringlets of softly perfect brown hair that cascaded down to her back, where its flow was continued by the red cape she wore. Its vibrant, sensual languor was mirrored by the skirt she wore—though it was hardly modest how its beaded girdle held it in front of Wanda and behind her, but hid little if any of her hips, and the strong legs that continued on with creamy poise to her sandals. They were as bedecked with gypsy baubles as her earrings and elbow-length gloves… while in a final, prideful touch, a low-cut bustier showed off both the flat belly that her pregnancy had long since been erased from and the majestic breasts that showed off her dusky skin to aplomb. Steve could sympathize with her brother Quicksilver’s desire to shelter her. Her glossy hair, fine features, and wide, expressive eyes already made her a temptation that any man would yearn to yield to, but when she showed off her voluptuous body, it made her truly irresistible.

It made it hard not to think a little less of the Vision. Steve knew the synthezoid wasn’t exactly human, but he’d always considered ‘Vizh’ a man, at least. But ever since his destruction and reconstruction, Vision apparently considered himself a new being—one with no obligation to his ‘widow’. Small wonder Wanda looked heartbroken. She’d always had a childlike innocence, an enthralling softness that, despite her appealing physicality, made her wrong for Steve as a partner. He was attracted to her, certainly, but he recognized that he himself was an old soul, and she was a youth in every sense of the word. Too young to be lost in troubled thought, as she seemed to be now. And yet, in that melancholy, her innate beauty and goodness remained intact. Shining through like the sun through a dark cloud.

Sitting down in a nearby armchair, unnoticed by Wanda, Steve began to draw her in her unknowing, yet totally fitting pose. He tried to capture something of her pristine nose, delicate chin and jawline, her wide mouth with moist, flawless lips showing the pink of a flower that had just bloomed—all with nothing more than white canvas and leaden gray. It was impossible, of course, but Steve had never minded lost causes.

His mind wandering in the curious slack of focus and control, he found himself thinking how paradoxically fitting it was that she was Magneto’s daughter. Despite the man’s vile deeds and often violent nature, there was a core of nobility to him… and that, at least, he had passed down to his offspring, letting it find its fullest expression without the darkness of the past being able to hold it back. She had inherited something of his looks—it was most obvious in her bright, clever eyes—but tempered by the beauty of her mother, a gypsy wildness that made her too strong to succumb to her demons.

“Oh, Steve!” Wanda gasped suddenly, turning toward him. “I didn’t notice you.”

“I’m the one who should apologize. I was trying not to be noticed.” Steve smiled ruefully. The page would be left forever unfinished—one of those lost causes he so frequently found himself on the wrong, or right, side of—but he thought it captured some of her beauty, both in appearance and in character. He turned the sketchpad to face Wanda, showing her his work. “Unguarded moments seem to be at a premium here. I suppose I just wanted a reminder.”

Wanda looked at his drawing with her own grim smile. “It’s lovely.” She managed a small laugh. “As self-serving as that compliment would seem to be.”

Steve could see her heart wasn’t in the smalltalk. “What’s wrong? You’re usually quiet, but right now you seem downright sullen.”

“Just thinking about… rivalries. It’s odd, isn’t it? We Avengers are a team, yet we all seem to have enemies we consider a territory of sorts. You and Baron Zemo. Iron Man and Justin Hammer. It’s like they’re our personal responsibilities—or our own private demons. We handle them on our own, unless they form some sort of team. _Then _we’re comfortable ganging up on them.”

Steve smiled disarmingly and moved to the couch beside Wanda. “I suppose the downside of a group as capable as this one is that we all have some amount of pride. We are only human, after all. Even the gods among us.”

“Or the mutants,” Wanda said, with some of her old wryness back. “I’m in a bit of a precarious spot, Steve. I have matters to attend to that are my own domain. But I need help to take care of them.”

Steve grinned. “When do we leave?”

Wanda shook her head. “If only it were that simple… I need some very specific help. A trickster.”

Steve pretended affront to amuse her, wearing an exaggerated pout. “I’ve been known to be pretty tricky in my time.”

Wanda gained a foothold on an airy smile. “I’ve no doubt; tell me, how well do you know Spider-Man?”

Steve scanned his memory, even though his impression of Peter Parker quickly leapt to mind. “Not as well as I’d like. He’s good company. A little… ‘Hawkeye’ at times, but a true hero. The Avengers are poorer without his membership, but he does so much on his own that I’m afraid being part of a team would only hold him back.”

There were things he left unsaid. In a way, Peter reminded him of Wanda. Both were children at heart, but where Wanda was innocent, Peter was all too cynical. A callow youth with no small amount of adolescent rebellion, the childish joy he took in being a hero and helping others weighted down by being forced to mature before his time. He had as much in common with Steve himself, bruised and battered from skin to soul, as he did with Wanda’s purity. But Steve wondered if that wasn’t his old-fashioned chauvinism talking. Sweet, innocent Wanda had certainly been through more than her fair share of calamity. It took real strength to come through and be the ingénue that she was.

Wanda’s lips quirked. “Yes, I can see it in your eyes… he can be trusted. I have to ask something of you, Cap. You’re a founding member. Only you can access the most restricted files on the Avengers. He’s a reserve member. I need his name and address.”

Steve grimaced. There was, in actuality, no hidden database containing the Avengers’ secret identities. That’d be far too much of a security risk. But the founders, in a rare moment of autocracy, had insisted on learning the private information of each new recruit, committing it to memory alone. The only contact information on file was the serial number of each individual’s Avengers ID, which were impossible to track, as Tony Stark had taken the liberty of printing out several hundred and distributing them to safely anonymous locations. Anyone trying to hunt down Avengers that way would net themselves more rats and stray dogs than superheroes.

“Wanda,” Steve said, “I know as a former member of the Brotherhood of Mutants, you never had the opportunity for a secret identity, but to many of us, it’s the difference between life and death. I can’t break that trust on a whim.”

“This is no whim!” Wanda insisted. “It’s a matter of life and death. If ever you’ve trusted me, Steve, trust me now. I need Spider-Man!”

***

“I need Spider-Man,” Mary Jane moaned, and as desperate as Wanda sounded halfway across the city, her voice was even more urgent.

Mary Jane still wore the costume she’d spent all night acting in. Now, thanks to filming schedule fun, sleep deprivation, and bad weather finally delaying the shoot, she planned to spend the whole day in bed. If that sounded conservative for the former party girl, it should be noted that she wouldn’t be alone.

The ‘cheerleader’ sat on the edge of Peter’s desk. Her bright red skirt was up around her tawny waist, while her panties lay forgotten on the floor, alongside the apple she’d picked up on the way home to present to her ‘teacher.’ Her white sweater had migrated to having a hold on only her left arm. Peter hadn’t bothered to remove her bra, only undoing it and sliding the cups aside to reveal her sweet, pert breasts.

“I hope you’re enjoying our lesson, teach,” Mary Jane panted, barely able to keep her voice when she had to moan and sigh with each thrust Peter made inside of her. “You’ll want to pay close attention—there’ll be a pop quiz when we’re done!”

Peter smiled. “I thought this was the pop quiz,” he said. Then, when Mary Jane opened her mouth to retort, he thrust into her _hard. _MJ almost screamed. With what little concentration he could afford on anything that wasn’t his wife, Peter marveled at it: he’d been an Avenger, on the Fantastic Four, gone to space, but nothing took his breath away like Mary Jane Watson.

“Fuuck!” Mary Jane recovered. “Bastard.”

“Sorry. I have a lot of mixed feelings about cheerleaders.”

“I’m glad we’ve—ha! Yes!—finally found a way for you… Nhhh! To go to therapy!”

Mary Jane felt like a virgin again, being opened for the first time by Peter’s enormous cock—though with hardly any of the pain that unfortunate deflowering had entailed. In fact, Peter was racing along the same path he’d taken an hour ago, when she’d first arrived home, before they’d taken a well-deserved nap together. Now her lust was in a war of attrition with her tiredness, one gloriously swapping places with the other over and over again.

She was awake again and knowing their sex would be far too hot for the cocoon of covers and comforters they actually slept in, she’d moved the action to elsewhere in the apartment, where Peter was working on one of his experiments. It’d been easy enough to convince him to put aside the chemicals and instead focus on a procedure he was already a master at.

And she was most definitely not giving this costume back to wardrobe when the shoot was over.

Leaning close to Peter, Mary Jane whispered in his ear: “At our next practice, I’m not going to wear any panties. I hope you watch, teacher. When we do somersaults, you can see how much I’ve been thinking about you…”

Groaning, Peter pulled her away from the desk before they spilled any of the chemicals. Sometimes, when he made MJ come hard enough, she passed out. Said it was the best sleep she ever had.

It was time to put her to bed.

“Rah! Rah! Rah!” MJ cheered as he dropped them onto their bed, intent on driving the headboard a little further into the wall. She knew after that, it’d just be a short nap before she was ready for more. She wondered if Peter ever felt undersexed, having to wait for her to wake up so he could fuck her back into unconsciousness: the world’s most exciting sleep aid. She had limits, but with this ‘exercise’ going on virtually every night of their marriage, couldn’t it be that Peter got stronger and stronger?

If he developed anymore stamina, Mary Jane would have to get herself a stunt double.


	2. Chapter 1

Massachusetts. The dead of winter.

When Cerebro had detected an emerging mutant up in Vermont, Scott had wanted the recruitment to go nice and simple. After the team’s escapades with Magneto, Omega Red, and Sabretooth, let them rest. It would just be him and Psylocke, whose psychic powers would cover his own skill and training in comforting and calming this possibly volatile new mutant. They wouldn’t even take the Blackbird. It would make for a nice drive, in a sporty sedan that Scott hadn’t taken on the interstate for far too long. The smooth ride would equally appeal to Betsy’s lush tastes—as would the driver, if she were being honest.

Then a nor’easter had swung in to slam against Boston, shutting the city down and turning the East Coast into an ice storm. It turned out the other X-Men would be needed after all, on disaster relief. Scott didn’t exactly regret not being there. In this scenario, Storm was more than capable of leading the team and probably the best person for the job. But he didn’t like having plans go afield, even ones as casual as this one.

Betsy sat in the driver’s seat of Scott’s BMW 850CSi, having traded off with him at their last rest stop. It had still been light then. Now the halogen headlights stabbed out into the night at full blast, but revealing little more than swirling snow and sweeping sleet. The blinding whiteness that dwarfed their headlights’ output made a mockery out of the headlights as well as the night itself.

“I hope you’re rethinking your decision to leave the Blackbird in the hanger,” Betsy said, her clipped British accent adding a bitterness to her words that otherwise went unvoiced. She wasn’t angry with Scott, per se. She was more bitter with the storm itself, for turning what would otherwise be an intimate, even romantic getaway with Scott into a harrowing drive. Typical X-Men business…

“Avoiding a squall like this is exactly why I went with the BMW,” Scott replied. Sitting in the passenger’s seat, he pored over a Palm Pilot—or rather, what passed for one after Beast had tuned it up to X-Men standards. Like Professor X’s ‘wheelchair,’ it now bore little resemblance to what most of humanity would’ve referred to.

“I’ll give German engineering its due,” Betsy said, “but I rather think I’d put my money on Forge’s work.”

Scott grinned ruefully. “Let’s not find out either way. There’s a cabin a few miles off. One of Warren’s holdings. I’m sure he won’t mind if we gate-crash.”

Betsy could’ve laughed. Trust Scott to have an exit strategy. He had probably worked out safe houses and potential allies all up and down their route. For a perfectionist like Betsy, it felt good to have her diligence duly met by another. It was almost enough to make her relax her self-imposed vigil—a combination of ninja training and psychic self-preservation that was now so deeply held within her that she would’ve thought she’d never find someone she could trust to watch her back.

But there was a reason Scott was leader of the X-Men. His well-ordered mind was as scrupulously maintained as her own, and not out of necessity as in Betsy’s case, but out of choice, sheer discipline and determination to never let down any of his brethren. She found her eyes drawn away from the swirl of snow and road that was the only point of interest through the windshield, instead regarding Scott’s handsome face, his clean-cut features, every part of him chiseled and firm as if to match his steely will.

It actually proved relaxing, following the instructions of Scott’s cool, stoic voice as he guided her step by step through winding roads to the promised cabin. Betsy wondered if one day a similar system wouldn’t be available in every car. Not a person physically reading out electronic maps, but something along the lines of Cerebro or the Danger Room’s vocal interface. The technology the X-Men and their fellow superheroes traded in usually seemed lightyears beyond so-called cutting-edge tech like this BMW she was driving, but she wondered how long it could possibly be before the likes of Steve Jobs and Bill Gates equaled at least some of it. The day might come when the LAPD had their own Heli-Carrier, not just SHIELD.

“Here we are,” Scott said tersely, and true to his word, the view through the windshield finally showed a feature beyond snow and darkness. The cabin was conservative, understated, classical—the kind of place Betsy would associate with Warren Worthington’s maturing tastes. If half the stories she’d heard about him as a teenager were true, he once would’ve settled for nothing less than a mansion, not this rustic and almost quaint cabin that seemed to boast no more luxury than being cozy and comfortable.

That still left the exacting trip to the cabin. The road terminated in a garage—that looked safe enough—outside which was a flight of stairs leading up the hillside at least two stories to where the cabin was finally situated atop the crest of the hill. It gave the cabin a majestic vibe and surely promised a stunning view. But the frigid rain had already sorely taxed the BMW’s heater. Betsy didn’t like to think about what it would do to the flesh she took such pride in.

If Scott had any misgivings about the last leg of their trip—Betsy would’ve been content to huddle in the garage, especially given the company—he showed no sign of it. He had insisted on bringing cold-weather gear and without hesitation, he went around back of the car and opened the trunk, retrieving thick parkas for both of them as well as overnight bags. No words were necessary. Scott thrust Betsy’s parka to her and she threw it on over the sedate sweater and jeans that were already doing their best to keep her warm.

“You know,” Betsy said, “I bet if you pointed that visor of yours straight up and gave the rain an optic blast, we could make it to the cabin without being totally drenched.”

Scott zipped up his parka. “Running keeps people plenty warm.”

Betsy bit off further complaints. He was, after all, the one that covered his entire body in advanced X-Men spandex. She on the other hand wore a one-piece bathing suit and, admittedly, some very high boots.

Scott opened the door leading out of the garage. “On your mark… get set…”

They made the run up to the cabin in record time, although that hardly mattered. The storm soaked right through their coats, more like waves crashing on a beach than cute little raindrops. Finally, they reached the cabin. Scott moved with a grace that Betsy, for all her ninja agility, could only envy. As though he had rehearsed each step a million times, he retrieved the key to the cabin from inside a lantern on the porch, then wrestled it into the lock and let them in.

Inside, his actions were no less decisive. With almost brutal efficiency, he stripped away his parka, then the leather jacket he’d worn beneath it. “Your clothes are soaked, Betsy. Get out of them.”

Betsy was taken aback for a long moment. Did Scott truly intend to strip naked in front of her? Was he finally returning her flirtation as he seemed to do everything else, swiftly and resolutely?

Scott ripped off his drenched shirt, dropping it to a puddle on the ground. Betsy’s eyes roved over the strong muscles that defined his chest, the supple firmness that ran through his shoulders and down his arms to his nimble fingers. There was nothing obscene or excessive about Scott’s musculature—he was not a hulking brute like so many superheroes. Instead, his body seemed set with practiced, prepared muscle, like he was an Olympic athlete, his strength meant for precise use instead of narcissistic show.

“Strip, Betsy,” Scott continued as though she hadn’t heard him. To Betsy’s disappointment, he stopped his own disrobing at his jeans, instead bending to pull off his sneakers and wet socks. “Do you need me to do it for you?”

“Hardly,” Betsy retorted, unzipping her own parka with a sizzling _thiip! _Scott paused in his otherwise military efficiency, as though picking up on the fact that Betsy was thinking about stripper poles and lapdances far more than she was avoiding hypothermia.

She shucked off her parka, then pulled her sweater up over her head, showcasing the promise of her full breasts within the tight tanktop she wore. With its white cotton soaking wet, her bra was revealed in all its glory. Betsy beamed as she took off her tanktop too, leaving her in nothing but gleaming wet skin and her concealing black bra. Perhaps she’d misjudged the storm. It was proving very useful.

Scott, however, turned and walked away rather than stay and watch… as though his ever-present sunglasses were those of a blind man instead of an X-Man. Betsy wondered if he was truly so duty-bound that the implications of their present circumstances escaped him, or if it was just that he meant to drive her truly wild before he fell into bed with her.

Either way, at the moment, Scott was not answering the fervent desire Betsy felt as she undressed. He stooped over the fireplace—unsurprisingly left with plenty of firewood, as Betsy would’ve expected from someone who trained under and beside Cyclops himself—and quickly, efficiently built a fire. He stoked it with single-minded determination, until in what seemed no time at all, it was a roaring inferno, the perfect thing to warm them.

He then looked to Betsy. Betsy had gone to the hall adjoining the living room, opening up a hall closet to find a selection of towels and shower robes. She had also finished undressing while he was occupied. Scott was treated to the sight of her naked ass as she fetched towels from the closet. He had thought her uniform left little to the imagination, but in its corset tightness, it did manage to tamp down a little on her voluptuous body. Her breasts were restrained as they would be in a sports bra, appearing a size or two smaller than they really were, as Scott could see merely by the sides of her cleavage. And her ass—always flaring out buoyantly from the narrow athleticism of her waist—now appeared outright curvaceous, a fruit that simply could not get any riper, anymore amply juicy… anymore ready to be eaten.

“Guess we’ll need to put something on until our clothes dry,” Betsy said, tossing Scott a towel and a robe.

“Y-yes, I, uh—“ Outside of battle and the cool rundown of his seamless plans, Scott seemed ill-equipped to handle the attentions of such a beautiful woman. Odd, considering he was married to the world-class beauty of Jean Grey. But perhaps that only made him more awkward, more vulnerable—a perfectly dominant, aggressive man in every respect, but still waiting to yield to Betsy’s seduction, to surrender. She wondered what waited beneath team leader and uneasy conquest alike: sheer animal passion that he tried hard to deny or the kind of submissive pleasure that might appeal to a woman like Jean?

Scott shrugged on the robe. Then, turning his back to Betsy, he worked his jeans and sodden underwear off before tying his belt shut. “I’ll hang these up,” he said, dangling his jeans from the nails on the mantel that would usually hold Christmas stockings, then going to retrieve their other clothes from around the front door.

Barefoot, Betsy walked to the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace and sat down cross-legged. As if obeying some soulful desire to seduce—something far beyond her telekinetic powers—her robe fell open in front, allowing the fire’s heat onto her breasts, her belly, between her legs.

Scott returned, hanging up the remainder of their clothing to dry in the fire’s heat. He looked at Betsy, blinking his eyes as though she were more apparition than woman. If he had somehow become used to her appearance in the abbreviated lingerie that passed for her X-Men uniform, he was completely unprepared for how she looked in nothing more than a fluffy white robe. Having seen her bare body for a crucial few seconds earlier, that robe now seemed offensive—a blasphemous sin against the perfection of her naked flesh.

He retreated from that overwhelming awareness of Betsy’s beauty, into his sense of duty. “Well, as team leader, I suppose it’s my duty to feed the troops,” he said, only half-joking.

Betsy watched as he went to check out the larder, the icebox, the bottles of water, and the stove—all located within the same large living room as the fireplace. Unsurprisingly, there were little more than essentials. “Powdered milk—Hershey sauce—marshmallows… we could make hot cocoa,” Scott suggested.

“How traditional,” Betsy said. “Christmas in July, or rather, November.”

She stood to her full, supermodel height. Scott had a hard time not staring at her in her white robe, her bare feet, her long legs going all the way up from her lacquered toenails to the hem of her robe. He remembered the glimpse he had gotten of her naked ass. What would it be like, grabbing her from behind, pressing his swollen prick to that perfect ass? She was completely nude under that robe. He could still find out. Scott quivered all over.

“Not to contradict you, fearless leader,” Betsy said, and for a stomach-dropping moment, Scott thought she had peeped on his thoughts. “But it’s not your job to feed the team.”

“Oh?” Scott asked weakly.

“Rank hath its privileges. You could always tell me to do it. I don’t mind taking orders.”

“Not very feminist,” Scott mused, for lack of anything else safe to say.

“Really?” Betsy retorted. “I’ve always considered myself a strong woman. If a man is strong enough to tell me what to do, well… should I demand he not be in charge—not be on top—just because he’s a man and I’m a woman?”

“Well, I—“

“If someone’s capable of handling me, I’ll let them. Whether they’re a man or a woman. And since you got us out of that awful rain and into this nice, warm shelter… I’d say at the very least, you deserve a reward.”

“A reward?”

Betsy smiled. He wanted her. She knew it. She could feel his eyes on her half-naked body every bit as much as she would if he were unleashing an optic blast. “Sit down by the fire. Relax. Take a load off. I’ll make us something to eat.”

“Sure you’re being feminist?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Rather, think of it as an opportunity for me to dispel some nasty stereotypes about British cooking.”


	3. Chapter 2

The same winter squall that Scott and Betsy were currently seeking shelter from had also hit New York, though with less force than it was bringing to bear on Boston. The rain was pure sleet as it chiseled down onto the Manhattan skyline, darkening the skies well before dusk, its chill seeping inward wherever it could get.

Thankfully, in the apartment of Peter Parker and Mary Jane Watson-Parker, the heater had finally been fixed. It made the bedroom a safe zone of blessedly humid air, the chill from outside taking the edge off, resulting in a perfectly cozy evening for the two lovers. Both rested easy, knowing that the threat of pneumonia was doing a far better job at keeping criminals off the street than Peter could. And the longer the rain lasted, the longer they stayed indoors. Together.

A lightning bolt crashed down from the omnipresent cloud cover, momentarily illuminating the bedroom in stark white light through the glass block windows that took up so much of the east wall. It didn’t wake either of the relaxing couple, but a moment later, rolling thunder brought Peter awake.

On his side, he stirred to find Mary Jane right where she’d settled after they’d made love, the small spoon to his larger one. His body was curled protectively around her, his left arm under her head to serve as pillow, while his right was draped over her side, hand cupping her breast as if providing one last layer of defense for the heart that pounded inside her warm body.

Another flash of lightning provided all the light Peter needed to see their ghostly reflections in the window’s one-way glass, a necessity considering their two lines of work. Already luxuriating in the softness of Mary Jane’s gorgeous body, Peter now took in its appearance. He might’ve been surprised to learn he had the same artistic inclinations as Captain America, and now looked at Mary Jane with the same aesthetic appreciation that Steve had regarded Wanda Maximoff with.

But whereas Steve’s appreciation stopped at simple admiration, Peter’s progressed to a lovelorn nature that would’ve qualified as rose-colored glasses if MJ weren’t so objectively lovely. Where Steve saw only a teammate, Peter saw his wife, his best friend, his trusted confidante—saw the look of mischief waiting behind the eyes that were temporarily shut, the smile that could so easily take possession of her full lips, the light dusting of freckles on her creamy skin that looked so cute and adorable, but would become downright exotic when she was swathed in a passionate sweat.

He had to take a picture. He had to do something more than simply look at her. There was an insistent idea on what that might be from down in his crotch, but Peter was unwilling to wake MJ. She’d lost enough sleep on his account. Instead, Peter recalled that he had never bothered to remove his webshooters as he and she had mutually ripped each other’s clothes off. They often proved useful in the throes of passion. For once thanking his luck, Peter aimed his hand at the camera on the nightstand, curled his fingers, and tapped the contact on his shooter with the slightest amount of pressure. Whisper-quiet, a thin line of webbing _thwipped_ out to snag the camera.

In years to come, the internet would marvel at videos where, thanks to trick photography, multitudinous attempts, or (rarely) skill, someone seemed to be able to make a basket from all the way in the bleachers or manage six bullseyes with six arrows. Without even thinking about it, Peter displayed that same poise now, pulling the camera into the air and easily catching it in that same hand. He aimed the viewfinder at their reflection, marveling at how incredible Mary Jane looked with nothing covering her body but himself and the flannel covers that made this cool room heaven on earth, and he snapped a few pictures of them—hoping that Mary Jane found his muscular body as enthralling as he found hers.

“Try and get my good side,” Mary Jane gently sighed.

Peter kissed her temple. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No, babe, it’s my natural reaction to a camera shutter. I can hear one from a mile off.” She smiled. “Want me to do a few poses? Talk about knowing how to do it in my sleep…”

“Nah. How can you improve on perfection?”

“S’easy. I do it every day.”

“Yeah, I hear certain bodily fluids are great for the skin.”

Mary Jane snorted her way into a laugh. “Jesus, Parker! You’ve got a dirty mind. I thought you were a role model.”

“I can think of several twelve-year-olds who would love to be where I am right now.”

“Mmm. There’s a crack about emotional maturity somewhere there, but I’m too lazy to find it. I just wanna stay in bed and have you think about how sexy I am.”

“Oh, you can do that any day. What other thoughts do you think I have?”

“Stupid ones.”

“That’s fair.”

Lightning crashed almost on top of thunder outside, driving Mary Jane a little deeper into Peter’s arms. She laughed at herself a moment later. “Geez, what is this? Global warming? El Nino? The Casket of Ancient Winters?”

“Just that fine New York weather you hear so much about. Daredevil lives for this stuff. Makes his brooding so much more intense.” Peter assumed a worried look. “You know, the Punisher is probably out there somewhere. This is very ‘him’ weather.”

“Oh, don’t you dare!” Mary Jane gripped him rather intimately. “Crime called on account of weather, remember? No one’s going to rob anything when they can’t step out into the street for five minutes without being frozen solid. Even Frank Castle couldn’t find someone to shoot in this weather.” He responded to her touch, giving her more and more to hold. Mary Jane smiled and added another hand to the mix. “I’ve got you all to myself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Peter groaned.

With the gongs of thunder, Peter’s swelling moans, and Mary Jane’s own bated breath, it was easy to miss the doorbell ringing. But it rang again and again, until even Peter had to push Mary Jane aside and vault up from the bed. Grumbling as he hid his webshooters and picked up a robe to throw on.

“If they’re a Jehovah’s Witness,” Mary Jane said, “you have my permission to kill them.”

It was no Jehovah’s Witness. When Peter opened the door, his irritation turned quickly to astonishment. Wanda Maximoff stood on his doorstep, bedecked in a rain slicker, hat, and galoshes that were practically hip waders.

“Mr. Parker. I’m sorry for intruding. I really must speak to you.”

Peter was torn between inviting the Scarlet Witch in out of the rain—_geez, what would it take to drive an Avenger out into this weather—_and lingering memories of exactly what he and MJ had been doing until oh-so-very recently. “Yeah—I—this isn’t a great time.”

“It’s urgent. It can’t wait.”

Peter bit back a rejoinder; between his legs, something sure _felt _urgent enough for him. “Look, thanks for saving the world all those times, but if it was that urgent, couldn’t you phone? Five minutes, okay—five…”

Wanda pushed her way in. For such a demure woman, she sure could be assertive when she wanted to be.

Peter closed the door behind her. He really should’ve gotten used to these impositions by now. “Let me guess. The other day, I accidentally took a picture of the Holy Grail and we need to go find it. I went to high school with the Antichrist and now you need me to talk to him man-to-man. The last time I went to Blockbuster, I accidentally rented The Protocols of the Elders of Zion…”

“This isn’t the time for levity,” Wanda said, though she hid a smile. With a quick gesture, her weather-appropriate attire disappeared in a burst of smoke and light. The next moment, she was wearing the skirt and cape and bustier she usually had on.

Peter’s erection, which had been flagging, now surged back to life. “Aren’t you cold?” he asked.

“Yes,” Wanda answered. With another gesture, the coffee table burst into flame.

“Hey! Do you know how many hours I spent assembling that?”

“Relax. It’s not that kind of fire.” Wanda sat to warm her hands on the fire.

“Not that kind of…” Peter took a closer look at the coffee table and saw that, like the famous bush, it was burning without being burnt. “Geez. And Mary Jane gets on me when I don’t use coasters.”

Speak of the devil: Mary Jane came in, wearing a lace negligee under a fur coat. Peter had to hand it to her—even throwing on an outfit to do nothing more than keep from flashing a house guest, she had style.

“I am either taking my husband back to bed or I am taking a _piece _of him back to bed, depending entirely on—Peter, the coffee table’s on fire.”

“It’s fine, I think.” Peter held his hand out and found that the flames didn’t singe his fingers either. “It’s a cool fire.”

“That’s nice. Now remember me? Your wife? Our love for each other? The next ten minutes of our love for each other?”

Wanda waved slightly. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Mary Jane parroted back. “Oh. You’re an Avenger.”

“For a while now,” Wanda said. “I’m very sorry to interrupt, but I need your husband’s help.”

“My husband the photographer? What do you need him for, a Maxim shoot?” Then, under her breath, Mary Jane added “You’re dressed for it…”

Wanda grimaced unhappily. She could sense she wasn’t making a good first impression. “I know the truth about Peter. And I need Spider-Man.”

Mary Jane threw her hands up in the air. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! If it’s not SHIELD asking for help and it’s not Daredevil and it’s not the Human Torch, it’s Little Miss Avengers? You can’t ask one of the other forty superheroes on the payroll to help out? It has to be my husband? Look at the weather out there—his suit’s not even waterproof!”

“It has to be him,” Wanda insisted. “He’s the only one.”

Peter held up a consoling hand to Mary Jane. “MJ, let’s hear her out. I’m sure she wouldn’t go to all this trouble if it weren’t important. Why don’t you go get some rest, I’ll go get this over with, and we’ll be a cuddle puddle again before you know it.”

This was one of those times where someone trying to soothe her only pissed Mary Jane off more. Where was all this diplomacy when Peter was telling Scarlet Witch to take a hike, anyway? “’Get this over with’? What does she even need you for, huh?”

“I need him to make love to me,” Wanda said.

Thunder came down on the city like a hammer, almost managing to shout down the voices that now filled the Parkers’ apartment.


	4. Chapter 3

A childhood of making tea in villages and hamlets where electricity was often a luxury proved good preparation for her current role of cook—or rather, bartender. Betsy lit the stove, mixed bottled water and powdered milk into something that was almost recognizably from a cow, then added chocolate sauce and dollops from a bottle of Schnapps. If that didn’t cover up for any deficiencies in taste, nothing would.

Finally, she had two mugs of steaming hot cocoa to share with Scott. They sat on the bearskin rug and watched the flickering flames that gave the room its own light. She wondered if Scott’s body would be so hot. She’d so long associated him with the vibrant optic blasts that issued from his blazing visor that it was hard not to imagine a feverish heat in him—his tongue burning as it slowly licked her sex.

Already aroused merely from being so close to naked, and so close to Scott, Betsy felt a few drops of her own private nectar running down from her groin. She caught the droplets on her fingertips and tasted them. Tart and sugary, like a spicy honey. She imagined it would pair well with how Scott’s seed would eventually taste. It would probably be like the rest of him. Strong, overpowering, but surprisingly sweet. She washed her little appetizer down with a long sip from her mug.

Scott was equally aware of how there was nothing under his robe, nothing under Betsy’s—barely anything to stop him from sweeping both sets of cloth aside, snaking his cock inside of Betsy as they both wanted so much. He saw Betsy licking her fingers clean, but assumed she was just cleaning up an errant drop of cocoa. Otherwise, he tried to look straight ahead—trusting his visor to hide that out of the corner of his eye, he was stealing glances at how Betsy’s long hair glinted in the firelight, at the curious intimacy of her bare feet, at the exotic beauty of her profile with her full, sensual lips on full display. He tried to remind himself of the taste of Jean’s mouth, but could only think of how Betsy’s tongue would be even sweeter.

Betsy took a long draw from her mug and then moaned, as if the cocoa were warming her from within, pleasuring her as Scott longed to. She wiggled her toes and tossed her hair, pouring flirtatious gazes into Scott’s visor and wondering how long he could resist the perfection she saw reflected in the ruby quartz. Scott’s robe was open at the neck and she could see his bare chest, a downy layer of body hair running down his swimmer’s body to where the robe finally closed, hiding his manhood from her so well that it could only serve as a target. She brushed her toes against his foot.

“Curious, isn’t it?” Betsy said coquettishly. “If not for the storm, we’d probably be in a hotel by now. Sleeping in separate rooms. Instead, we’re sharing this cabin. It’s almost like fate, don’t you think?”

Scott downed the last of his cocoa like he was knocking back a shot of whiskey. “I’d hope fate has better things to do than worry about two people’s sleeping arrangements.”

Betsy refilled his mug. “Maybe. But is that all we’re going to do here? Sleep?”

Scott looked away from her, staring into the fire. _She’s not trying to seduce you_, Scott told himself. _She can’t be. She’s just being friendly. Teasing. Making herself feel sexy by telling herself she can have any man she wants. Emma Frost is the same way and she certainly doesn’t want to sleep with you._

“Is something wrong, Scott? Don’t you like the hot chocolate?”

“It’s delicious,” Scott assured her. “I just… don’t like being sidelined this way. Having the mission go awry. Having to sit out the relief efforts. It makes me feel useless.”

Betsy put down her mug. Moving behind Scott, she settled on her knees to massage his neck. “You’ve done everything you could. You can’t be at ground zero of every single mission the X-Men do. You need some time to yourself—to relax—to have a little fun—even if it doesn’t fit into your busy schedule.”

Scott could feel himself melting. His head drooped forward. So this was what Betsy wanted… just to get him to unwind some. A natural goal for a telepath. With the way he’d tensed up, she’d probably picked up a little on it herself. A massage would be good for both of them. “That feels good,” he sighed.

“It certainly does,” Betsy said, running her hand along his upper back. Scott’s shoulders were impeccable. “But you’re so tense. I think we need to go deeper.”

Before Scott could answer, she pulled his robe off his shoulders, easing it down until it was puddled at his waist. Scott sat there bare-chested, with Betsy’s soft, warm hands caressing the firm muscles of his back.

“You certainly take good care of yourself,” Betsy commented. “If only you did as much for your psyche as you did for your body.”

“What do you mean?” Scott asked. “Meditation? I’ve tried that.”

“And?”

“Too much to think about.”

“Is your life really that complicated? Aren’t some things nice and simple?”

“Not enough things.”

“Then we should make things simple. Do or don’t. Yes or no. Right or wrong.”

Betsy leaned close to him, pressing her breasts against his muscular back, letting him feel her erect nipples even though the robe she still wore. Her chin landed on his shoulder as she reached around him to rub his chest and the hardened six-pack of his abdomen—even a part of herself found it hard to believe how daring she had become. The more she touched Scott’s bare flesh, the more aroused she became. Her fingers flowed down Scott’s rigid belly to where his body hair became hard and wiry, and she could see his cock showing its hardness through the insubstantial barrier of his robe.

“Man or woman. You’re most certainly a man, Scott. Now let me be a woman.”

Scott was on the edge of losing his mind. Betsy had draped herself all over him, her fingers caressing him from his nipples to the hairs of his groin, her every touch sending a new shiver through him, while her breath on his neck sent hardness down into his crotch until he didn’t think he could swell anymore without bursting. He could smell the sweet perfume of her bare body, something intangibly her mixed with the fury of the storm outside, while her breasts pressed warmly against his back, letting him feel her racing heartbeat through her firm cleavage.

“Betsy,” he groaned. “Stop.”

“Alright, Scott. I’ll stop.”

Betsy pulled away from him, leaving Scott feeling insufferably cold, even with the fire going. But that only lasted until she walked in front of him. She’d taken off the robe and the fire silhouetted her body, its shadows the only thing she wore, the only blunting there was for the perfection of her naked flesh, her creamy skin, the absolute artistry of her proportions, with supple muscle, full breasts, and womanly hips all balanced with no margin of error. No, everything about her was sleek and lithe and well-formed, like she had honed her body to sculpted perfection in just the same way that she’d trained her mind to be even more disciplined and ordered than his own.

And capping it all off was a flower bud of purple pubic hair at her groin, almost punkish, representative of the mischievous will that Betsy cultivated right alongside all her honor and training. It drew Scott’s eye. It pulled at the rest of him. Her sex was the ultimate perfection, the zenith of her beautiful body, the final temptation in a physique that was entirely seduction. Scott actually fell to his hands and knees before her, trying to hold himself back, even as he was helpless not to stare.

“There, Scott,” Betsy said, her voice devilishly even, not trying to be seductive except in how sultry her British accent was at all times. She was either certain he was seduced or did not care in the slightest if he spurned her: perhaps both. “I’m not touching you anymore. But would you like to touch me?”

Scott went mad, if it could be said to be madness to give in when faced with such nakedness in both form and proposition. He rose to his knees and shoved his face between Betsy’s thighs, licking at her sex as his cock throbbed wildly away, oozing precum with each pulse that ran through it. His tongue thrust between Betsy’s labia and into her cunt, but even at his wildest, Scott still drew upon his experience, pleasuring Betsy as he had learned to from Jean, from Madelaine, and all the others.

“Yes, Scott, eat me!” Betsy exclaimed, writhing like a butterfly stuck on a collector’s pin, though no insect had ever been so eagerly impaled. She ground herself against the handsome face she had admired so many times, fucking herself on his licking tongue. And her own thoughts were going in the opposite direction.

She wasn’t being collected by him, oh no. He was in her collection—he _was _her collection. In one fell swoop, she had taken possession of his talented tongue, his potent cock, his strong muscles. Everything she had ever admired or fantasized about in Scott Summers was now hers, a sex toy for her decadent enjoyment. She would give all of herself to him; it was the only way she could revel in all he had to offer.

Scott was delirious with hunger, his appetite growing with every sweet taste he got of Betsy’s sex. Her honey-tart juices ran freely from her pussy, swept away by the constant vigilance of his tongue as he licked and sucked and slurped, filling his consciousness with the taste of her. He wrapped his lips around her squirming clit and sucked it hard, as more of her nectar poured down his chin, marking him as hers.

“Lick me!” Betsy moaned. “Oh, suck me, go deep— you’re driving me fucking crazy!”

Reaching back to hold herself up on the fireplace’s mantel, Betsy leapt up and wrapped her legs around Scott’s head, rocking her hips against his tongue as he lashed it at her. Scott could hardly breathe, but he didn’t care. He would gladly asphyxiate as long as he did it between Betsy’s smooth thighs. He’d drown in her cream if he could.

His tongue twisted inside her, its tip probing her innermost folds, finding her depths seething and clenching around it. As he licked and sucked, he slid his hands up her taut belly, reaching her breasts. Betsy cried out, wishing she could let go of the mantel and instead hold his hands to her breasts, to make sure they kept squeezing and rolling and caressing her tits as he was doing so well. She never wanted him to stop.

“Oh Scott, Scott, YESSS!”

Scott rubbed his mouth against Betsy’s throbbing lips, twisting his tongue inside her cunt as if riding its spasms and contractions. Her hot juices flowed into his mouth in reward for his darting tongue and he sucked and swallowed all of it, unable to get enough of her taste.

“SCOTT—SCOTT—SCOTT!” Betsy gibbered, out of her mind with pleasure. She tightened her legs so hard around his head that she could’ve been trying to crack his skull. Each flick of his tongue stoked the fire inside her. As his lips covered her clit and his tongue swept through her pussy, the tension proved too great to sustain. Betsy exploded with one jubilant cry: “I’M COMING!”

Scott moaned as Betsy’s juices filled his mouth, their flavor irresistible. He gripped her by the hips to hold her safely in place as her loins jerked wildly, their twitching the smallest physical trace of the rapture Betsy was feeling. As he held her still, her frustrated spasms ripped through her, jiggling her breasts, flailing her hair, as if in one last celebration of the physique that had provoked such lust in Scott and led to such bliss for Betsy. He felt the muscles of her slender waist flex against his fingers. Her clit, hard as stone, twitched so vibrantly it might be humming.

“OH GOD, GOD, YOUR TONGUE—!” Betsy’s eyes rolled. Her flesh shuddered. Her bare legs kicked and her toes clutched air as the intensity of her orgasm ran through her again and again, until the echo of it had finally become an afterglow more satisfying than many sexual encounters Betsy could recall. Relaxing to the point of bonelessness, Betsy’s clenched fingers lost their tension and she released the mantel, falling into Scott’s arms and allowing him to lower her onto her back upon the bearskin rug.

Then Scott knelt over her. His right hand went to his prick. He pumped his foreskin back and forth. The hardness of his erection demanded to be used. Whether because of her telepathy or simply her womanhood, Betsy knew it as strongly as he did. With a satisfied smile on her face, yet a wanting look in her eyes, Betsy spread her legs.

After how Scott had overwhelmed her with his normally taciturn tongue, she wondered if she truly had any idea what she was getting into.

She hoped not.


	5. Chapter 4

Wanda laid it out slowly, all of them gathered around the kitchen table. As she spoke, she took off her cape and the ornate headdress Peter had never seen her without. Now that it didn’t frame her face, giving her the elegiac appearance of some specter or demi-goddess, Peter realized how young she was. _Geez, she’s practically a founding member of the Avengers and she’s younger than I am! _

As Wanda kept going—for what felt like hours—she took up a deck of cards from nowhere and began to shuffle it. Dealing, flipping, weaving them back into her skilled hands. It was all Greek to Peter. Less than Greek; he’d picked up enough of that language from Hercules, but with Wanda he was totally lost. Still, he could recognize the regularity with which certain cards were coming up. Maybe there was something to the cards. Or maybe Wanda literally wasn’t working with a full deck.

Peter could admit that the rigors of the working world had dented his bona fides as nerd supreme, but he still had a mind for arcana. He could explain what a Sith was, recite when spice was first discovered, and moreover, he could keep up with alien rivalries, corporate intrigues, lasers and FTL—most of what went into his normal working day. But he was hard-pressed to keep up when things went all Neil Gaiman. Anytime things rhymed, really.

Mary Jane seemed to be following along with considerable investment, considering she was listening to someone who had just announced her intent to have congress with her husband. Peter tried not to be uncharitable and chalk it up to some boy-girl thing: _Peter man! Peter like hard facts, logic! Mary Jane woman! Like emotion! Destiny! Scented soaps!_

Wanda dealt for the final time. The Lovers, naturally. The World. And Death, upside-down. Peter wondered how these cards got upside-down, anyway. Was that a normal shuffling thing? Most Hoyle’s cards didn’t have a right-side up—if they made a Tarot deck like that, would the Fates just have to shake their fists, maybe write an asterisk on each card when there was a caveat attached?

Wanda finished her tale. The Tarot cards disappeared into her hands, then just disappeared. None of them spoke. Mary Jane pushed her chair out and came to her feet. Peter was too stunned to follow her; by the time he thought to, she was back. She’d been getting Wanda a mug of hot chocolate.

The spectacle of Mary Jane extending hospitality to the woman who intended to cuckold her—cuckquean her?—shocked Peter out of his stupor.

“Let me get this straight,” he said firmly, but trying not to be too firm. _Me Peter man! Want hard facts! No feelings! _Was it too much to ask that a guy didn’t have to sort out Lovecraftian deities and masculinity in the same day? “There’s some kind of mystical ritual that needs to be performed every… ten? Ten years?”

Wanda nodded. Peter felt for her, but with some relief. The way Wanda had explained it, it only counted if the spellcaster was ‘blooded’—sexually mature. So if she’d first done it ten years ago, she would’ve been about nineteen. He couldn’t imagine she’d be short on takers for some good old-fashioned sex magic, but the X-Men had always described her as soft, introverted. She could’ve been a virgin when first called upon to do it.

“And because you’re…” How to describe it? Wanda’s history with Magneto and the High Evolutionary and Chthon (whoever that was) made Mary Jane’s soap opera turns look as simple as calculus. “Affiliated with Chthon and the Mount Wundagore bunch, you have to sleep with a married man to cast this spell.”

“Yes,” Wanda said. “It’s sympathetic magic. To prevent the chaos gods from transgressing the border between our realm and theirs, we must perform a transgression of our own. A mirror to block their way. You can’t push past your own reflection.”

_Why not? Harry Potter does it all the time, _Peter thought, but didn’t say. Perfectly nice evening with the wife and now the Scarlet Witch had turned it into _Indecent Proposal. _“And—because of the parameters of the spell—it has to be me.”

“Not you, specifically, but a totem, a weaver of the Web of Life and Destiny, and someone with a soul-bond to someone with whom he regularly… merges.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Mary Jane said, making Peter half-wince, half-laugh. If _he _wasn’t allowed to make jokes…

But Wanda seemed to lighten at the jibe. Mary Jane’s gift for reading the room put Wanda at ease instead of causing her to further tense up. “Spiritually, I mean. Sex is a very mystical experience. Your auras, your focus, your desire… well, if you’re doing it right, anyway.”

Mary Jane smiled back at her. _If I had known she was this cool with people trying to sleep with me, I would’ve introduced her to Felicia a lot sooner, _Peter thought.

“And if we say no?” Peter asked bluntly, trying to rail them back on track.

“The barriers protecting our world collapse. Everything and everyone you’ve ever known is ripped apart at the level of their conception,” Wanda said.

“Weren’t you _listening?” _Mary Jane asked.

“And it has to be me?” Peter persisted.

“If you don’t know of any other spider-totems who are great warriors, happily married, and…” Wanda waved her hand frivolously. “Born to the left of the equinox.”

Peter never thought he would miss having clones. “I’m not much into franchising,” he said. He knew there were two Spider-Women, but as far as he knew, neither of them were lucky in love. And even if they were, did Wanda swing that way? Did _they? _He doubted these things worked unless… well… they worked. “Left of the equinox… I don’t even know what a spider-totem is!”

“Don’t worry about it right now. You will.”

Peter took a deep breath. “If you don’t mind me asking, who was it last time?”

Wanda looked at him squarely. “That’s private.” _Oh, THAT’S private. _“But since what you really want to know is why you and I didn’t have to do this the last time…”

“Peter!” Mary Jane said chidingly.

“It’s perfectly alright, MJ. It settles Peter to have all the details fit together as best they can. And it helps me to explain it firmly. Last time, my partner didn’t need to fit your qualifications. The laws of magic aren’t like the laws of physics. They flow and change. As an animal isn’t a robot, magic isn’t science.”

“So then you needed—I don’t know, a left-handed circus clown who played guitar—but now you need me?”

“Yes. Why?” Wanda asked straight-faced. “Has some left-handed circus clown who plays guitar been talking about me?”

Mary Jane burst out laughing. It had a slight tinge of hysteria to it. Peter could see it all at once: the mask, what was underneath, and the cracks growing in between them.

“Could you excuse us a moment?” he asked Wanda.

She nodded and picked up her mug. “Thank you for the hot cocoa,” she said, briefly resting her hand on Mary Jane’s shoulder, then left the room.

Silence hung between them. Peter felt a distance he hoped was in his imagination, but he felt it all the same. Like wherever he’d been comfortably secured in Mary Jane’s heart, he’d been abruptly relocated. Maybe not kicked out, but there was a definite shift. And it was giving him motion sickness.

“So, what do you think?”

Mary Jane opened her mouth to reply, then closed it. Then: “I think I need a drink.”

Peter wondered if maybe he should’ve gone first. He wasn’t a drinker, but he thought he knew exactly how Mary Jane felt.

She came back from the refrigerator with a bottle of Miller Lite, wrenched it open with her thumb, and knocked back a draught. Peter hoped it helped. His life as Spider-Man had demanded so much of her. Her time with him, her peace of mind—now it was asking for his faithfulness, the one thing he’d always thought he would be able to guarantee her.

“You’re attracted to her,” Mary Jane said, and it was so out of nowhere that Peter felt like he’d been sneak-attacked by Venom. No spider-sense.

“MJ, c’mon…”

“_You c’mon. _Look at her!”

“I don’t want to sleep with every attractive woman I see.”

“Yes you do. So do I!” Mary Jane blinked and looked at her beer, as if it were hitting her harder than expected. Peter wondered if alcohol could work like that. Deliver a knock-out blow when you were already rocking on your heels. “You know what I mean. If I act with Tom Cruise, I _want _to sleep with him. I don’t do it, I would never do it, but I _want _to.”

Peter nodded. “Okay, yeah, sure. In that sense, I’m attracted to her.”

“Good.” Mary Jane took another pull from her bottle. “So that will make this easy.”

“Don’t be like that,” Peter insisted.

“Be like what? Accepting?”

“A martyr.”

Mary Jane slammed her bottle down. “Oh, I am _no _martyr. I am _way _too fucked up to be a martyr. But…” She let out another shrill laugh. “Okay, it’s getting depressing that I’m the only one drinking. Wanda!” she called. “You want a drink!”

Wanda, wherever she was, didn’t answer.

“I think she might be out on the balcony,” Peter suggested.

“In this weather?”

“She does have magic.”

“_In those clothes?”_

“She could tell people she’s sunbathing.”

Mary Jane smiled and it seemed to have more good humor than when she’d laughed. “Honestly, Peter… this is going to sound crazy… I’m glad this has come up.”

Peter blinked. “Oh God…”

“I said _sound _crazy,” Mary Jane insisted. “I’m not crazy.”

“Is this some kind of… everyone leaves me, so might as well get it over with…”

“Peter, your bad guys are the ones motivated by dime-store psychology, not me,” Mary Jane stated. “And honestly,” she continued lightly, “I’ve pretty much given up on getting rid of you. You are really stuck on me.”

Peter almost involuntarily sighed in relief. Not so much from what MJ was saying, but by how she sounded like _herself _again. “Okay, so what is it?”

Mary Jane reached out to take his hand. “For a while now—in the bedroom—I’ve wanted to do—_more.”_

“More?” Peter repeated dumbly. He felt numbness radiating from his skull, like every hole in his head was stuffed with cotton.

Mary Jane shook his arm, almost playfully considering the circumstances. “Come on, Peter. We’ve never shied away from a bit of kink. I was just thinking of taking it a step further, but I thought you wouldn’t be comfortable with it, so I didn’t want to upset you…”

“How much further?”

“I don’t know,” Mary Jane said, somewhat dishonestly, as she immediately followed that up with: “A threesome. Wife-swapping. Maybe a key party…”

“Wow,” Peter said, feeling like his IQ was now hovering at a single digit.

“It’s _not _because I’m not satisfied,” Mary Jane emphasized. “That isn’t it at all. In fact, I almost feel like I’m… hogging you. Keeping you all to myself.”

“It’s a marriage, honey. That’s kinda how it works.”

“Says who? Thor, the God of Thunder, _who you know?”_

Peter almost guffawed, but ended up letting out something more like a hiccup. “Okay, I always knew you weren’t the shy, retiring type…”

“It’s not _that,” _Mary Jane insisted. “It’s you. You’re a _hero. _You’re a good husband, you’re a great husband, so of course you should enjoy all the benefits of a happy marriage. I know I do. But then you save a bus full of kids or stop a building from blowing up and you bleed and you get slammed in the press and… and I can’t help but think you deserve more.”

“I don’t want more,” Peter stressed.

“The same way I don’t want to sleep with Tom Cruise,” she said laconically.

“I had no idea you felt so strongly about Tom Cruise.”

Mary Jane wagged her finger negatively. “We’re talking about you. What you deserve. But if you do want to talk about me…”

“Frequently,” Peter grinned. It felt like a floodgate had opened, relief pouring in. He’d actually doubted his place in Mary Jane’s heart? She was more devoted to him than he’d ever dreamed.

“Well, _I _wouldn’t mind too badly if you did it with someone… cute… and naughty… and maybe a little loud.” Mary Jane smiled. “Not the shy, retiring type, remember?”

“Yeah. Jesus. I had no idea…”

“Like I said. Our marriage can be hard enough. I didn’t want you to have a nervous breakdown over Black Cat giving you head.”

“You want _Felicia _to give me a _blowjob?”_

Mary Jane shrugged. “As long as we’re in an open relationship, you might as well give her what she wants. I’m not cruel enough to make her watch from the sidelines as you, well…”

Peter drummed his fingers on the table. “Let’s table that discussion for now.”

“Yes,” Mary Jane agreed. “No need to go mad with power, tiger. But as long as _an Avenger _is bringing up the topic—that is how I feel.”

“I’ll try not to have a nervous breakdown.”

“Don’t,” MJ asserted. “If any girl’s fucking makes you a basket case, I want it to be mine.”

Peter felt like he’d taken a whiff of pure oxygen. He was heady, _giddy, _with the sheer release of tension. “So I’ll tell Wanda that… we’re cool, basically.”

“Yes.” Mary Jane leaned her head forward, her gaze striking Peter’s. “And ask her if it’s okay for me to watch.”

“Mary Jane!” Peter gasped, following it up with a slight guffaw at how _scandalized _he was. _And here I thought I was young. And a guy. _

“You are my husband,” she said nonchalantly—the only woman Peter would’ve bought such casualness from under the circumstances. “Whenever you fuck, I should get some fun out of it.”

Peter closed his eyes. _So much for not having a nervous breakdown._


	6. Chapter 5

Her hands as sure and steady on the controls of the Blackbird as her thoughts were inside her carefully ordered mind, Jean piloted the aircraft through the gale-force winds roiling off of the winter squall, carrying a hold full of mutant patients back to Westchester. There had been plenty of mutants caught in the nor’easter, injured, and even if human hospitals took them, there was no guarantee they could treat patients with as many abnormalities as the average X-gene holder. The trauma center at the mansion was much better equipped to handle them, while taking a load off the hospitals in the area.

It was a good call, a wise call. But still, Jean second-guessed herself. She wondered if it was the choice Scott would’ve made. Not that she didn’t have faith in Storm as team leader—she just missed Scott, his steely presence and clear-headed leadership—and she missed him as a man, if nothing else. She missed her husband.

Trying to banish those thoughts, she focused on the task at hand, helping to unload the Blackbird of its precious cargo. Her telekinesis came in very handy, moving those who could not move themselves. When everyone was situated in the trauma center, she took a moment to freshen up, allowing herself some vanity. The howling winds and pouring sleet truly had done a number on her, but it only took a tiny visit to the bathroom to restore herself. Her long, lean body had never needed much work to look good, nor did the sculpted features of her face, if Jean did say so herself.

Finished touching up her make-up, Jean admired herself in the mirror. Her body was sheathed in skintight yellow, unstable molecules that were a highly effective shield against the elements, while also showing off her statuesque physique. A second layer of blue fabric adhered almost as tightly to certain sections of her body, serving as added body armor for her vital organs, while also padding some of her curves. Not that Jean needed much help in that department.

Looking at the—eye-popping combination of yellow and blue, Jean had to admit that, while she’d never been the most fashion-conscious of girls, it was perhaps lacking in a certain stark simplicity, the elegance that resulted in iconic status. She wasn’t half-dressed like Psylocke, but still, the ninja did have a more memorable, perhaps more stylish outfit than her.

Not that she cared about such things. They were Scott’s colors, she was proud to wear them, and happier still to wear anything that was so far from the Phoenix. _That _had to be put behind her, all of it, from the Dark Phoenix to the Black Queen. It was gone. She was just Jean Grey now—Jean Grey-Summers—and it didn’t matter what she wore. _Scott _didn’t care what she wore. What was underneath satisfied him completely, and that was for her husband alone. No one else mattered.

God, she missed him. Going into action without Scott felt far too much like the poignant absence of a fallen team member, a phantom limb in the body of the X-Men. She knew that was ridiculous. He was just out of action, it happened to each and every one of the X-Men sooner or later. But it wasn’t like he was nursing a broken arm in the trauma center either. She didn’t _know _that he was safe and sound. His road trip was right in the middle of the storm’s path and there was no telling what might’ve happened to him.

Jean resolved to find out. Certainty in every step, she made a quick detour to Cerebro. She would center in on Scott’s thoughts, make sure he was okay, then take the Blackbird out once more. It would take no time at all; the jet would still not be refueled before she finished up. And if he wasn’t in pristine condition, she would fly the Blackbird to hell itself to pull his lawfully married ass out of the fire.

No sooner had she thought this than it was done. She was at the door to Cerebro, submitting to a retinal scan to ascertain her identity. The vault-like door opened, allowing her into the most powerful psychic amplifier in the world, and she quickly moved to the station Professor X usually occupied, dead center in the massive spherical chamber. A moment’s work to affix the control helmet over her red hair and then the machine was live, providing a portal out of her physical body, a suit of armor around her astral self, a computerized helping hand as she sifted through the collective unconsciousness of the human race, searching out the distant sound of her husband’s voice… but hearing Betsy’s resonant psyche instead.

_Scott, it’s my turn now. Let me suck your cock. I know you liked how my pussy tasted. How about giving me a taste of your cum?_

***

Scott stood frozen like a statue in the light of the fireplace, his only movement the throbbing of the immense erection that speared out from his crotch. I dropped to my knees before him, my face only inches from the huge cock I wished to pay homage to. I licked my lips as I looked up at him.

“Are you going to suck it?” Scott asked, his voice quavering with apprehension. He was still unsure, his mind still in doubt while his body had yielded. It led to stupid questions as the two attempted to reconcile.

“Suck what?” I teased.

“My…” Scott began, then stopped in stony silence, his cock throbbing as if answering for him.

“Say it,” I insisted, wanting to hear that sexy little word from his lips.

“My cock,” Scott forced out. “Are you?”

“If you like,” I smiled up at him. I loved seeing his stern face crack as I talked dirty to him. “If you want me to, I’ll eat your cock right down to the balls. And then, once you’ve fucked my throat enough, you can fuck _me. _Right here on the floor. I’ll spread my legs until my pussy is wide open, so you can see everything when you stick your hard cock in it, and fuck me until we both come. Do you want that, Scott? Do you want _me?”_

_“Yes,” _he gulped, his face contorted into a grimace like he was already weathering the tightness of my cunt.

Without hesitating any longer, I took his cock in my hand, shocked at how hard it was throbbing, and thrust the bellend into my mouth. The taste immediately filled my senses, but even more than that, with his cock being sucked, Scott went wild. His hands grasped my head and held me totally still as he pumped the rest of his shaft into my mouth, forcing his prick all the way down my throat, until his bloated balls were pressed against my chin. I felt my pussy clench at his roughness, one hard spasm following on the heels of another as I choked on his manhood, each one throbbing through my keening body like a tiny orgasm. The more he fucked my throat, the more I loved it, even as I was left gasping for breath.

I forced myself away from him, sprawling on my back, spreading my legs to offer him my open cunt. His prick still jutted out from his groin, dripping with the saliva I had left coating it. Scott dropped down to his knees, then lowered himself on top of me, grunting once, achingly, as he thrust himself inside the obscene invitation of my wet pussy. The size of his intrusion actually caused pain, a wonderfully sweet pain I could not have enough of.

“Hurt me!” I gasped hungrily. “Shag me, hurt me, hurt me with your cock!”

Scott wouldn’t tolerate insubordination, even at a time like this. He held me down, his big hands on my shoulders, and pinned me to the floor with his lunging thrusts, battering my pussy as only a real man could, with a rising speed and a rock-hard cock that went deeper with every hammering stroke. The lust I had felt when I throated his manhood only increased in intensity now that he was inside me, fitfully being answered by him pistoning into my sex, making me walk a razor’s edge of desperate need and complete satisfaction second by second. I panted for air as he used my cunt to what felt like the limit of what I could take.

When Scott orgasmed, it was like he was unleashing all the cum he had stored up as we did our little dance, waiting until the levees broke and he took me like we both wanted him to. He bathed my cunt with a sea of teeming sperm and I rocked my hips against his, stuttering with each liquid jolt he gave me, determined to drain his balls of every drop in them. My folds tightened on his cock like I wanted to keep it inside me forever.

It felt as if Jean hadn’t touched him in years, not since their wedding night, as Scott came and came, filling my sex completely with his steaming seed. It actually felt uncomfortable, wonderfully so, as he made me the recipient of all the lust I’d ever inspired in him, until I felt a distinct lack of room, the gulping sensation of his cum spilling back out of me with nowhere left to go.

Finally his scalding ejaculation ended. I was out of breath, fraught, feeling ballooned with the sheer amount of cum stuffed into me. Then Scott began rutting into me again, his cock thrusting into my pussy and pistoning back out like he was just starting to fuck me instead of finishing up. Every phallic drive pumped out the cum he’d just filled me with, alleviating my stuffed feeling a little, but replacing it with a brutal tension as I felt the friction of his stroking prick alongside the sensation of being crammed full of his seed.

His unending lust for me aroused me even more than how his cock was slamming into my cunt—I went wet and hot and tight and _came _as I realized this was no afterparty, he just wasn’t going to stop fucking me. Scott really was going to force orgasm after orgasm out of me until he was satisfied with my performance. The man was exactly the same as both a lover and a team leader.

I seized up, thrashing so intensely that if it weren’t for his muscular body pressing me down, I would’ve flown up through the roof. I felt like I was falling apart, taking all of his endless passion. With no other choice, I screamed in agonized bliss, letting out some of my boiling excitement.

“Bloody hell, Scott! Fuck me! Fuck me forever! Are you ever going to stop?”

With the glare of his red sunglasses concealing his eyes, he might have intended to go on infinitely. His impaling cock was the only answer I got and the only one I needed. Scott’s naked body came ceaselessly down on mine, his cock seeming to be harder and bigger every time it entered the tightness of my clutching sex.

And then he was coming inside me all over again. The rapture I had experienced before was left in the dust by a climax so intense that I could scarcely believe it. I felt my pussy strain to the limits, taking both his cock and the cum he spurted endlessly inside me—it felt like it was actually stretching, so much semen coming out of him that there wasn’t time for it to backwash out of me.

I was beyond screaming. I was coming so hard, with such pain and pleasure and the pleasantly, odiously _stuffed _feeling of having eaten a feast, that my voice broke and I whimpered hoarsely as a hungry dog. I was helpless—completely dominated by the rampaging prick that was using me as nothing more than a repository for all the cum I had backed up in him, flashing my tits and ass, making smutty little remarks and flirty little looks. I had brought this on myself, asked for it, begged for it, and now Scott was giving me every inch, every drop, that I could’ve possibly wanted.

Scott didn’t care that my belly was bulging from its former tautness, my pussy now a lake of his cum. He was utterly single-minded, determined to put me to the use I’d volunteered for. Fucking me wide open and filling me with all the spunk I’d been foolish enough to solicit, from the gaping, well-stretched lips of my slit to the very depths of my womb.

He stopped coming, but that just meant it was once more time for him to rut into me, shagging me so hard that his cum sloshed around in the bulge it’d made of my stomach, spilled out of my splayed cunt in rivers that soaked my buttocks with warmth. His cock was stiff as ever, fucking me even harder than before. My mouth gaped, eyes wide as I realized he was going to come in me again, fill me with even more cum. He’d blow me right off his prick if he came as much as he had the last two times.

I was almost totally exhausted, my cunt aching pleasurably from how it’d been reamed and the ocean of spunk it’d had to hold. But I didn’t care. I was pushing my limits as hard as I ever had on the battlefield. All I wanted was to take his cum again, one more time.

I ran my hands down his back, with its ridged scars and defined muscles, reaching his bare ass and gripping it tightly, to hold his slippery flesh together with mine. I wrapped my legs around his, feeling their sweaty hair glossing against my tender skin, and kissed him passionately in thanks for the harsh, reckless, infinite _fury _he was shagging me with.

Shit, how long had I wanted this, how long had I dreamed of Scott bloody Summers and his bloody bulge and my needy little cunt filled to the brim—now here it was, even more wonderful than I had imagined, almost more wonderful than I could take, but this was what I wanted out of life. I pitied Jean, the poor dumb slag, not knowing or caring that she could get a toss this good out of her loving husband. Her loss was my gain. It didn’t matter how much he gave me; I would take it all before I let Jean have an inch.

As though he could read my mind instead of the other way around, Scott positioned his hands under my ass, digging his fingers into the perfect curves he’d stared at for so long, forcing me even harder against his furious pumping. His prick went deeper and deeper, filling me until it didn’t seem like there could possibly be a molecule of room left over. I thought I might burst when he came in me again.

“Oh Lord!” I moaned, my lips breaking away from his as another orgasm rocked my foundations. It felt like the very core of my being was under assault, being replaced entirely with pleasure and devotion to him, and I couldn’t bring myself to care. “You’re going to kill me! Scott, you’re shagging me to death!”

Scott’s lips curled in a rare smile. “Like X-Men ever stay dead,” he taunted me, and I reeled from the joke as much as the fuck as he came in me, his seed as thick and warm and copious as the first time. “_Hrrrh!” _he roared, as savage as Wolverine had ever been, a beast that I’d finally brought out after what felt like hours.

His cock burned me from the inside out, he spasmed, and then conceded his mortality, collapsing on top of me, his prick finally still. He lay motionless inside the tangle of my arms and legs, his bulk resting on me, both of us too weary to move. I was bloody paralyzed except for the river of spunk that issued from my gaping cunt, slowly diminishing the pregnant bulge in my stomach. The relief was almost as orgasmic as the sex. I cooed and whimpered as each dollop of cum that emptied out of my sex brought an aftershock of raw pleasure, like Scott still hadn’t stopped shagging me even after this triple dose of ejaculate. Maybe it was another of his master plans.

It had been amazing, having him come in me over and over again, but it felt even better to finally defeat him, or at least join Scott in being overwhelmed by the sex. His naked, sweat-soaked flesh was perfectly joined with mine, both of us sharing the same beautiful exhaustion.

But the really amazing thing was, despite how out of breath he was, Scott’s prick was still inside me, as hard as ever. I couldn’t understand it. I thought it would go soft eventually, but then it started to throb, pulsating harder and harder, with growing urgency, until my cunt was reawakening too, dragged along for the ride.

“Are you going to shag me again?” I demanded, giddy and scared all at once.

“Yes… just let me… catch my breath,” he panted.

“I don’t think there’s any more room,” I said, still feeling buckets of cum bloating me, waiting to leak out.

“Then turn over,” Scott said firmly. Now he’d gotten his second wind, or fifth. “There’s plenty of room in your ass.”

***

Jean came back to herself. She’d fallen to the ground under the intensity of even the secondhand experience Betsy’d had, her long legs scissored open while her hips rolled rhythmically up and down, following Betsy’s lead as she fucked Scott. Jean’s panties were wet. She had come in her pants—orgasmed from the sensation of her husband cheating at her.

And that hateful realization only seemed to make Jean more aroused. She was tender all over, her entire body tingling, aching to be in contact with Scott, her hands wanting to touch him, her moistly clasping sex wanting to hold his cock. But she couldn’t. Betsy was with him, the bitch. _And it had turned Jean on._

Jean’s red hair swished around her face despite the lack of breeze in the subterranean chamber. She thought of how she might repay Betsy for so generously taking care of another woman’s husband. With her cunt throbbing, the solution occurred to Jean almost immediately. Her hair danced like flickering flame as she thought that if Betsy liked being fucked so much, she would damn well see to it she was fucked.


	7. Chapter 6

The pendant was complicated in design, a six-pointed star with a crescent moon overlooking the upper half, intersecting the points of the star. Both star and moon were centered around rubies, which shone together unsettlingly like a pair of eyes. The entire thing was beautiful, while still being a bit unnerving.

“There may be those who seek to prevent the ritual,” Wanda said, holding the pendant out to Mary Jane. “If they do, you will have to hold them off.”

“Whoa!” Peter said, holding up his hands. “Whoa, _whoa, _no way—if there’s going to be a fight, we’re putting MJ on a bus before this even gets to first base—“

“Peter!” Mary Jane snapped, eyes flashing dangerously.

“—and we’ll get the Thing in here, or the New Warriors,” Peter continued. “Blade, _someone.”_

“I can handle myself,” Mary Jane argued stubbornly.

“These aren’t autograph hounds,” Peter insisted.

“And this is not a battle on the physical plane,” Wanda interrupted, shaking the pendant as if to remind them of its existence. “It will be fought in the realm of the mind. Mary Jane may not possess the raw power of some of your friends, but she cares for you as none of them do. That is why the ritual must be done with a married man.”

Wanda set the pendant into Mary Jane’s hands, then closed her fingers around it. “Usually it’s the guy who gets his wife jewelry after he steps out on her,” Mary Jane quipped, wincing even as she said it.

“It’s enchanted,” Wanda explained. “Old magic. If you must fight, this will empower you with the strength of your ancestors.”

“Okay then,” Mary Jane said. She cast a stern look at Peter. “I’ll go try it on.”

Peter and Wanda were left alone. Wanda drew on reserves of feminine poise that Peter, quite aside from his gender, had never developed. He could tell she was still nervous, though. She looked lovely, sensual even, but her composure was a cover, not the relaxation of someone truly at ease.

He understood the apprehension, though. They were going to have sex, with the fate of the world at stake, and even if she was currently single, he very much wasn’t. That fact made an otherwise attractive prospect into something nerve-wracking. He felt anxious as a virgin; ironic, when back then, he’d thought the best he could hope for was to marry a good woman and not die alone.

He’d managed that, but even as crazy as his love life had been and now was, it was hard not to describe it as lucky, considering Black Cat was in it, _let alone _Mary Jane—a perfect ten if ever there was one. And now Wanda, who had every virtue that Gwen Stacy or Liz Allan had ever had, in addition to being a world-renowned superhero, a magical pagan goddess, and—if you cared about such things—her Roma heritage counted as a ‘diversity win’.

It brought to mind the expression ‘too much of a good thing.’ Peter had been happy, _delighted _to spend this rainy day indoors with no greater purpose in life than satisfying Mary Jane—an out-of-this-world beauty like Wanda Maximoff showing up on his doorstep and demanding sex counted as a downturn in his day. His life was insane, his luck moreso.

Then Mary Jane came back into the room. If Peter’s mind had wandered to Wanda’s sexuality, Mary Jane’s reappearance seemed designed to remind him just who he had married. She had on the pendant, and a set of pearl earrings whose pristine sheen well-matched her wild-but-not-unruly red hair. From there, it was more a matter of what she _didn’t _have on. She wore a set of black lace panties that caressed her pelvis delicately, the filigree at the groin offering tantalizing glimpses of her glossy sex. Over it, a bustier was connected by garters to a set of stockings, all of them in one long, liquid flow down from spaghetti straps on her pale, freckled shoulders. But only some of the bustier actually _covered _her. A built-in bra and a panel of fabric that stretched over her belly, both green, while the rest was made up of mesh as sheer as her stockings, proving her skin was as creamy and flawless all over her body.

Even Wanda was taken aback, staring as though her own gypsy costume wasn’t every bit as much the lingerie as what Mary Jane wore. At least from the front. In back, Peter could see from a passing reflection that the panties cut between her pert buttocks with the minimum fabric necessary to hold the rest of the undergarment together.

“I thought I’d slip into something more comfortable,” Mary Jane said.

Peter was beginning to feel distinctly overdressed, which was a new experience for someone who spent half his time in tights.

“Aren’t you cold?” Wanda asked innocently. Peter let out a shrill, unprepossessing laugh, but Mary Jane only smiled with complete sincerity.

“I don’t think that will be a problem for long,” she said. “Now, why don’t I get us all some _real _drinks?”

Going to the liquor cabinet that she usually used only for entertaining guests—and Peter supposed this qualified—Mary Jane mixed them all gin and tonics. “So, Wanda,” she said as the ice cubes clinked into place. “How do you like it up the ass?”

Wanda blushed and stammered, her ears turning bright red. “I—I don’t think I’ve ever done that.”

“Well, if you want to,” Mary Jane said, bringing a tray of drinks to the coffee table Peter and Wanda were seated around. “Now’s the time. I love it up the ass. And Peter’s very good at giving me what I want.”

Peter was about to ask Mary Jane what the hell she was thinking, putting Wanda on the spot like this, when MJ laughed riotously and Wanda joined in with a girlish titter, hand raised to cover her mouth. Peter was agog. He could only chalk it up to Mary Jane having an X-gene for putting people at ease, even when there was no way the outrageous things she said should’ve accomplished that, at least to his own introverted way of thinking.

Wanda sipped her gin and tonic, while Mary Jane leaned into the sofa cushions next to her, like they were two sorority sisters bonding over their favorite Real Housewife franchise. For Peter, though, the suspense was unbearable—wondering what would happen next, who would start it, but unable to take any pleasure in the anticipation. Not when he was so worried about disappointing Mary Jane. If he enjoyed it too much, she’d want a divorce—if he didn’t enjoy it enough, might she take that as a slight against her new friend Wanda? It was all insane…

“Maybe we should just get on with it,” he suggested mildly. “Wanda, you take off your clothes, and I’ll—“

“No, not yet, dear,” Mary Jane cut him off, placing a mollifying hand on Wanda’s thigh. “Seeing as it’s my husband being loaned out, I think I should have some say in this, shouldn’t I?” She squeezed Wanda’s thigh and got an answering smile back.

Even with Peter’s stunted social skills, he could see MJ’s genius. Taking the sting out of this whole encounter by calling the shots herself, making it so neither he or Wanda felt any jealousy or guilt because Mary Jane was treating it all like _her _game.

“What do you want me to do?” Wanda asked, trembling like a leaf on a tree. Her thoughts were actually running along much the same lines as Peter’s; wondering what would happen and who would make the first move. But with Mary Jane as the master of ceremonies, the question was really what did _she _want to happen. The misgivings Wanda had felt over being with another woman’s man began to dissolve…

Mary Jane smiled in a way that both put Wanda at ease and made her feel like she was completely out of control. “Well, it’s like this. My husband happens to have a huge cock. And I’ve always wondered what I look like when I’m sucking the cum right out of it. And with that pretty face and those full lips, I think watching you do it is the next best thing to making a sex tape. You’ll probably look even better than I do when I suck him off.”

Wanda tittered. “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly…”

Mary Jane’s face fell in a pout. “You mean you won’t do it?”

Wanda shook her head before realizing that wasn’t very clarifying. “I mean I couldn’t possibly look better than you do… sucking him off…”

They made eye contact and understood each other perfectly. The idea of giving Peter a blowjob right in front of his wife turned Wanda on. And it turned Mary Jane on too.

Even Peter could see it. He undid the belt of his robe. “You heard the lady, Wanda. Come here. Kneel down and take my cock.”

Trembling with excitement, Wanda knelt on the thick carpet in front of Peter’s chair. He opened his legs wide. Wanda spread his robe open at the crotch and was delighted to see the sheer size of his prick, even when it was only half-hard. She leaned down to kiss it, at first close-mouthed, then merging her open lips against it, letting her tongue out against its contours with light, feathery strokes.

Peter groaned, surprised by how good it felt, how right it felt, even with Mary Jane right there. He couldn’t fool himself. He was responding to Wanda as much as MJ, his cock getting full and stiff, swelling out to fill Wanda’s mouth with its throbbing excitement. Wanda licked up and down its straining length, enjoying the grunts she provoked from the man.

Mary Jane sat on the armrest of Peter’s chair, her lips softly parted, her eyes shining. She ran her hands lovingly through Peter’s hair as she told Wanda how to fuck him next. “Don’t forget his balls, tigress.”

Wanda slipped her hand under the massive erection being aimed at her and cupped her fingers under Peter’s engorged balls. She tickled the wrinkled skin of his scrotum with her fingertips, watching how his prick responded. Wanda glanced at Mary Jane to see the redhead licking her lips. Wanda did the same. Under Mary Jane’s watchful eye, she caught Peter’s pulsing cockhead in her lips and squeezed it tightly in her warm, wet mouth.

He moaned as Wanda’s tongue trailed down the underside of his fat shaft, showing off just how much she had managed to fit into her mouth. Wanda got comfortable on the floor and rested her arms on Peter’s knees, ready to suck him for a good long time. She looked at Mary Jane again, proud of having the woman’s husband in her throat. Mary Jane smiled and reached out to run her finger over Wanda’s bulging cheeks, stuffed as they were with the hardness of Peter’s erection.

“Not bad, sweetness. You have a mouth made for _sucking.” _Purring happily, Mary Jane turned to kiss Peter’s cheek. “I’ve always wanted to give you a kiss while I’m sucking you off. I think this is close enough…” She crooned with delight as her lips met his, both of them sharing in the arousal of Peter being suckled by another woman.

Wanda herself felt her sex moistening with Peter’s cock down her throat, throbbing away. She tightened her lips and sucked hard, opening her throat as best she could to take more of Peter’s shaft. Peter grunted and his hips twitched, driving his length into Wanda’s gullet. He reached down to run his hand through her hair, caressing her ear, her neck, all of her lovely face.

Then Mary Jane took hold of Peter’s robe, working it off his chest. “Wanda looks fine, but I think it’s time you show a little skin, Pete.”

Peter extracted his arms from the sleeves, then leaned forward as Mary Jane pulled it off his shoulders and sat up briefly to let her pull it out from under him. Wanda bobbed her head on his pulsing manhood, stopping with her lips stretched around the bellend to suckle hungrily at it. She felt just _wanton_, stuffing her mouth like a slut while her lover’s very wife watched, obviously holding herself back from joining in so that Wanda could enjoy her husband to the fullest. She pumped her mouth down Peter’s shaft until his knob struck the back of her throat.

Again, Wanda retreated from Peter’s shaft to close her mouth around his collar, pumping his saliva-slick length in her hand until he was throbbing under her fingers, dripping precum into her eager mouth. As stunned as she was to realize the length and thickness of Peter’s cock, what filled her mouth as well as what protruded out of it to lead to his groin, she was more surprised still to see Mary Jane reach down and grab Peter’s balls, squeezing them lovingly in her hand.

“They’re nice and full, Wanda. Do you want all this cum he’s got to give you?” Mary Jane teased. “Better work for it. I know all the tricks to get Peter off. You’re just going to have to do some on-the-job training. First, why don’t you lose the costume? My husband isn’t some cape-chaser. He’s the one who _gets chased.”_

Overwhelmed by how Mary Jane was beaming over sluts going after her husband—_sluts like me, _Wanda thought—Wanda opened up her bustier, letting her full tits glisten sweatily in the open air. Then she undid her skirt. The loincloth fell right off her hips, confirming the long-standing rumor that she wore nothing underneath it but neatly trimmed pubic hair.

Peter groaned to see Wanda undressed to the point that all that was left was her corset top, opened up like a vest to reveal every lush curve of her well-sized breasts—not quite lingerie, but she was sure to give Mary Jane a run for her money. And Mary Jane’s green eyes raked over Wanda’s supple body with equal fervor, resting pointedly on the firm cleavage that billowed out of her unlaced top, refusing to be contained, making it seem impossible that they had ever been hemmed in by its parameters.

“God, no wonder even a robot fell in love with you,” Mary Jane sighed. “Peter, you’d better fuck the hell out of this witch or you don’t have an IQ point under that mask.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Peter chuckled. “Wanda, why don’t you show my wife she’s not the be-all and end-all of giving a blowjob?”

Wanda laughed herself, unable to believe the crazed party—the _orgy—_that this event had become. She had worried she’d be destroying Spider-Man’s marriage, but all she seemed to be doing was spicing up their sex life. And, it had to be said, her own.

_If only he wasn’t married, _Wanda thought ruefully. _If they were just dating, I’d… I’d…_

She buried her wayward fantasies into concentrating on Peter’s satisfaction, wanting to thank him for how easy he had made all this, as well as his supreme good taste in taking the ever-understanding Mary Jane for a wife. If she weren’t married either…

With a wanton cry, Wanda moved down to take Peter’s balls into her mouth, sucking them hard and leaving them glistening with her spit. Then she clamped onto his prick again, vigorously sucking it, trying to take as much of it as she could down her throat.

Mary Jane licked Peter’s face, like she was helping Wanda to play him to his orgasm. “God, Peter--wait until she sees how hard you come. Wonder if you can make her choke. Try. That’ll make you appreciate the hard work I put into deep-throating you, hubby.”

She lifted herself up off the armrest, circling around to behind the kneeling Wanda, enjoying the new perspective she got on Peter’s groaning, sprawled out body, Wanda’s curly head of hair bobbing over his lap. Kneeling down behind Wanda, Mary Jane popped her middle finger into her mouth and coated every inch of it in saliva as she pulled it out. When she patted Wanda on her bare ass, Wanda knew what that damp fingertip meant.

“We never did settle whether you liked it in the ass,” Mary Jane whispered in Wanda’s ear. “Let’s find out.”

Spreading Wanda’s asscheeks with one hand, Mary Jane worked her wet middle finger up Wanda’s hole. Wanda wasn’t sure if she liked the queer feeling or not, but she was so caught up in what Peter and Mary Jane were doing to her—what she found herself doing _with them—_that she pushed her ass back into Mary Jane’s probing finger, urging it deeper in. MJ mewled at the warmth she found in Wanda’s ass and pushed her finger all the way in, starting to pump it in and out of Wanda in rhythm with how Wanda’s mouth bobbed on Peter’s erection.

“I think she likes it,” Mary Jane breathed.

Wanda looked up at Peter and saw him smiling down at her. She smiled back, her mouth stuffed with his cock. Mary Jane’s other hand went around her, finding her cleavage, rubbing and squeezing it from the upper slopes to the swollen nipples to the sensitive undersides.

Wanda licked and sucked Peter’s manhood until she couldn’t take anymore, finally pulling her mouth off of him, turning her head to kiss Mary Jane and share the taste of Peter’s arousal, white precum that had bleached her tongue for MJ to suck on.

“I need him, Mary Jane,” she said desperately. “I need him to fuck me… need to be his…”

“You are.” Mary Jane curled her finger in Wanda’s ass, forcing the gypsy almost to the point of orgasm—all before Peter’s cock had touched anything outside her lips. “Hands and knees, Wanda,” she hissed. “Peter, fuck her from behind. Take her like a dog right here on the floor, just the way I like it. Mount her like she’s a bitch in heat.”

Wanda felt a surge of lust through her body, almost coming again at the sound of Mary Jane’s husky voice. It was like the redhead knew just how to keep her on the brink of orgasm, warm and ready for Peter to fuck. She couldn’t believe they’d never done this before. Maybe Mary Jane had been thinking about it—thinking about it for a long time until she found someone slutty enough to be a bitch to her and her husband.

Wanda followed Mary Jane’s directions, helped along by Mary Jane’s ushering fingers, and she was so out of her mind with sexual need that she actually felt in danger of forgetting where she was, needing Mary Jane to guide her as the redhead was so helpfully doing. She took up position on all fours, sweat dripping off all of her naked body, her mind whirling frantically but unable to get out of its lustful daze.

Peter positioned himself at the opening of her sex—she knew the wetness she felt on his cockhead was her own warm saliva, and the precum that had tasted so delicious on her tongue. He slid into her—Wanda moaned—then screamed as he fucked her cunt in a frenzy. Well-used to Mary Jane’s expertise in taking his overwhelming cock, Peter had little idea just how he was dominating Wanda by simply thrusting into her like she was his wife.

Wanda took his strokes on all fours like a mindless animal, mewling and whimpering as Peter moved in and out of her, his scrotum slapping against her thighs. Mary Jane reached under them and caught his swollen balls, fondling them as Peter increased the pace, fucking Wanda as hard as she could take, his hands clenched on her narrow waist, making sure she couldn’t go anywhere as his hips pumped in a gratifying rush.

Mary Jane squeezed his heavy balls with each powerful stroke Peter forced inside of Wanda—shaking her entire body with hard pumps into her unprepared cunt. With her other hand, Mary Jane reached into her panties and rubbed her clit. Peter’s work so often stole him away from her, so she was unfortunately well-acquainted with self-pleasure, but she’d have no problem at all with it if it always felt as good as this.

It went on for what felt like hours: Peter struggling not to come, Wanda struggling to stay sane under the influx of such pleasure, and Mary Jane not bothering with either of their self-restraint. Hopelessly possessed by the riot of sex before her, she worked her hand eagerly in her soaked panties, eyes and teeth clenched tightly slut as she shamelessly pleasured her cunt in an ever-increasing inferno of need. Finally, with her driving fingers making orgasm unavoidable, she squeezed Peter’s balls _hard, _knowing there was no injuring such a superhumanly resilient man, only pushing him to the same brutal excesses that MJ enjoyed when she was on the receiving end.

Peter let out a roar and came, Mary Jane holding onto his balls, feeling them spasm and coming along with him. He continued pistoning inside Wanda until the last drop of his cum had been deposited inside her.

For her part, Wanda’s orgasms had long since reached the double digits.

In the haze that followed their tripled climax, they somehow ended up lying underneath the coffee table, Mary Jane appropriately in the middle with one hand on Peter’s half-hard cock and the other tenderly caressing Wanda’s pubic hair. They sipped their gin and tonics, still delicious even with the ice melted, and the sound of one another’s gratified breathing was the sweetest song imaginable.

“So… Is that it?” Mary Jane asked, a little breathless.

“You expect me to take anymore?” Wanda replied, exasperated, then looked at Peter a little consideringly, with a shaky grin. She pinched her lips together. “Perhaps… to be sure it worked… one more time?”

In what seemed like no time at all, Peter’s manhood was throbbing in MJ’s hand, while Wanda was canting her hips, letting Mary Jane feel how her sex was warming up.


	8. Chapter 7

The sweat that coated Betsy and Scott’s nudity had nothing to do with the heat the fire had once shed on them. It still glistened in the fading light, emphasizing Scott’s toned physique, the muscles he had used while the logs in the fireplace burned to ash. Betsy had thought she was in good shape, but Scott had pushed her to her limits—the man was hung like a horse and his disciplined body seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of stamina to use it with. It’d taken almost an hour before he’d finished with her, and that was just the first round.

Her endlessly throbbing sex would sleep happily tonight. Along with her tingling mouth, still sore from how it’s stretched around her erection—but her hotly glowing asshole still demanded attention. Perhaps it was the Briton in her, but she wanted to make a clean sweep of it. Offer everything to Scott, have him dominate her every hole, and know all the pleasures that her body had to offer.

The fire was dying down, letting in the chill of the sleet outside, while its cooling embers let out less and less light. Betsy knew it was wicked of her, but she couldn’t help but be amused by the outcome of her secret rivalry with Jean. Here she was fighting a duel with the Phoenix over Scott, and not only had she come out the winner, but she’d created a monster out of the dull, devoted husband Jean evidently preferred.

Imagine, letting that dud of a redhead keep Scott a dud of a man. A little of her attention and he was the best thing to happen to a bed since sheets. He was as relentless in the boudoir as he was in battle, as single-minded about using his delicious cock on her pussy as he was about everything else. If not more so: as determined as the man could be about school papers and training sessions, no hot-blooded male could fail to put her hot body on a higher pedestal than all that nonsense.

Betsy kissed his square jaw, feeling the burr of his five o’clock shadow under his lips. He’d look better with a bit of scruff than clean-shaven. Maybe she’d press him to grow a beard. Imagine how that would feel between her thighs as he worked her sex into an orgasm machine. “Oh, you’ll never know how long I’ve waited for this. I imagined what it would feel like over and over, but I was starting to give up hope it would ever happen. I thought you’d never want anything I could give you, but now you see—I can give you _everything.”_

Scott said nothing, but Betsy could feel his mind at work, the satisfaction of what they’d done warring with his guilt over Jean, his marriage. He’d barely rebelled against Xavier; how could he countermand _her? _But Betsy wasn’t Jean. She wouldn’t try to micromanage his feelings, just give him space and time to work out the simple fact that she could satisfy him as wifey never could. That, and give him more inducement to see things her way. The right way.

Betsy stood, displaying her naked body in the last of the firelight, wondering how much of the red illumination that painted her was the embers and how much was Scott’s ruby quartz sunglasses. She preened, stretching, running her hands through her hair, and feeling some fond aches where Scott had been particularly enthusiastic with her. She didn’t mind. _Bring it on, _she thought. She wouldn’t be satisfied until Scott left her one big bruise.

“Come,” Betsy said, a wry grin making her double meaning perfectly clear as she reached down to help Scott up. He instinctively acquiesced, taking her hand and letting her pull his bulk up to his feet. There he stood, a head taller than even her statuesque height—if you liked tall men, swapping bodies with an Asian woman was great for that.

Naked, abandoning their clothes to the cool, passionless darkness, Betsy drew her new conquest to the bedroom. Scott stumbled along behind her, working the kinks out of his body. Betsy lit an oil lamp, rekindling the warm glow that had overseen their lovemaking in the other room, and she lay down without removing the bedspread, reaching out again to pull Scott down on top of her.

He went with her beguiling grip, laying on top of her, kissing her with more of his unending reservoir of passion. _This will be our marriage bed, _Betsy thought with kinky British traditionalism, though she was careful not to let that thought be broadcast. Scott might still be working out his feelings, but she knew they fit together as perfectly as their bodies did.

Scott reached down her slender form, taking her softly curved ass in his hands and squeezing the juicy flesh. He’d once tried not to give away how Betsy’s prominent ass attracted his notice, but now he’d well and truly given away how it was his favorite feature of hers. His cock quivered violently—he was addicted to Betsy’s body, groping her to get another fix, and Betsy kissed him so passionately that she had to be getting high too.

Scott played with her luscious ass, his erection pounding, straining with wild impatience, and he wondered how to tell Betsy that he wanted her ass with the same careless nonchalance he had before, in the midst of their lovemaking.

Betsy sensed his desire, hardly needing her telepathy when he was groping her buttocks so fervently, and she took it as another opportunity to show off her candor. If Scott couldn’t tell his wife what he wanted to do in bed, then let her be on the receiving end of all his dirty little desires.

“If you want to fuck me in the ass, Mr. Summers, it’ll be easier if I turn over.”

Scott nearly gasped at the shock of the refined Braddock casually tossing around the kind of gutter talk he’d expect from Logan. But with Betsy’s chilled accent and sweetly depraved lilt, it seemed not only natural, but delectable how at ease she was with what would be perversion outside this little oasis of a cabin.

Scott pulled away from her, fingers curling in the bedspread, giving her just enough space for Betsy to work her magic. She arched up, brushing her lips against his as she did a 180, coming down with arms folded under her, while her plump ass jutted out against Scott’s body, bearing him backwards a few inches with the same cheeky teasing as Scott’s withdrawal. She gave her ass a shake in obscene invitation, then clenched her buttocks until her anus tingled with sweet anticipation.

“Don’t worry about hurting me,” Betsy drawled. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy it far more than it could ever hurt. That’s the benefits of shagging a monster like yours! Just ram it into me and don’t hold back one inch! And hurry up, wanker—I’ve waited long enough.”

Now standing over her, Scott reached down to open up her satiny cheeks, leaving her tiny anus fully exposed—helpless and vulnerable between the juicy roundness of her ass. He put his burning cockhead squarely against the puckered sphincter and took a deep breath before slamming it forward. Betsy cried out in surprise as his brutal thrust easily conquered her asshole.

“Ooh, shit, Betsy, that is—_mmmf_—so fucking tight! God, it’s hot… _unngh… _milking my cock!”

“Bloody hell!” Betsy gasped, pumping her hips back to his groin, sliding her asshole down his long prick. His manhood burned and throbbed up her ass, sparking the perverse excitement that Betsy loved so much, the feeling of a cock where one didn’t belong, giving her pleasure she wasn’t meant to feel. “Roger me, darling! Right up the arse! You can tell I fucking love it!”

Betsy wailed, clawing at the bedspread as Scott pumped into her at a savage tempo, groaning and panting with the excitement of using her, his hands gripping her broad hips and hauling her fat ass against his groin so hard that he threw his head back, grunting animalistically as his cock lunged into her boiling rectum.

Determined to be the perfect cocksleeve for Scott’s pleasure, Betsy feverishly writhed and pumped and clenched her warm asshole on his cock. She wouldn’t rest until she felt his boiling cum spurt up her ass, Scott marking his territory the way he’d already claimed her mouth and cunt. She felt his huge cockhead like it was in the pit of her stomach, rearranging her guts with how hard it was fucking her.

“Fucking—_unnnh!—_fucking your asshole, Bets!” Scott bellowed, pistoning savagely into her jiggling asscheeks. He felt her squirming around him, her ass pressing in on his erection from all sides, and knew that he couldn’t hold out long while enjoying the thrill of sodomizing the tight ass that he’d lusted after for so long.

Any decorum Betsy might’ve had was crumbling as well, blown away by the white heat of sensation she felt as Scott fucked her ass. She pounded her fists on the mattress, creaking bedsprings underscoring the action as Scott used her asshole madly.

“Oh Scott, you wonderful man!” she ranted, eyes bulging as she felt his first jet of cum spurting into her bowels. “Hot cock in my ass! _Oooo, _YES! I’M YOURS, SCOTT! MY ASS IS YOURS! AAAAH!”

Her feverish asshole clamped down hard on Scott’s prick as she came, almost as if she were trying to keep his cum out of her ass, but Scott hilted himself between her curvy buttocks anyway, his cum bursting out of his cock in violent throbs, the fierce thrill ripping through both of them, almost too much to bear. Even in Scott’s hazy mind, he knew that this was the ultimate, there was nowhere else for that insatiable orgy to go.

His manhood slipped out of her trembling body, feeling like tenderized meat, but he still let out a deep sigh of satisfaction. All the strength had left his body. He laid down beside Betsy to recuperate. It felt like it might take years, but there was a hot glow in his groin, a feeling of profound satiation that he had to admit came from having gone the distance with Betsy. He’d fucked all of her that there was to be fucked and that gave him a sense of fulfillment he hadn’t even had with Jean, despite all they’d shared.

The comparison flickered a sharp twinge of guilt in Scott. He had it all. An effective team, a lovely wife, good friends, respect, admiration, and what was he doing while this beautiful machine he’d helped build in the X-Men hummed along on its way? He was fucking some temptress in her plump lips, her wild little cunt, her deliciously taut asshole.

But Scott’s misgivings were quickly washed away when he looked at Betsy again, her body so perfect it almost made him hard again, and he went to sleep with a sense of feverish anticipation, having her again as soon as he woke in the morning.

As silent and insular asleep as he was awake, Scott’s nostrils flared as he breathed through them, exhales scouring over his full lips—that lips that had given Betsy joy wherever they touched her. She slowly pulled herself to her feet, her breasts heaving with lingering excitement, and then tugged at the covers to bring them over Scott’s body. She was about to circle around the bed and join him on the other side; embracing him in sleep being the perfect cap to a perfect evening. But before she could, she felt the presence of someone else in the room—the psychic blizzard of another telepathic intellect, willful, raging, suddenly needling her with wrathful attention.

Betsy twisted to see Jean’s burning eyes trained on her, as baleful as her husband’s optic blasts. Her own face flushed with embarrassment as the outside world crashed down on this perfect little moment she’d shared with Scott, all its judgment, all its mores.

Then surprise took her. Jean was dressed as Betsy had never seen her before. A black thong skated over her pelvis with the same skimpy simplicity as the plunging crotchband on Betsy’s leotard, while a corset was cinched around Jean’s chest, too small and too tight to contain her cleavage. Her full breasts spilled out of the top and stretched the laces in front. Black leather gloves plunged down from her elbows, though her hands were behind her back, and a leather choker continued the look, as did knee-high black boots, which stopped only to show off her firm thighs as she stood legs akimbo.

“If you’re done with my husband, come with me. At once!”

Betsy narrowed her eyes. Of all the tacks she expected Jean to take if she discovered the affair, this one was daft even for the X-Men. She recognized the garb as a darkened version of Emma Frost’s wear. It had to be what Jean had worn as the Black Queen. But if she expected it to intimidate Betsy, she was sorely mistaken. The contest was already over. Jean had lost the moment Scott’s arms closed around Betsy’s body.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Betsy said snidely, sending a psi-bolt Jean’s way. She hardly expected it to penetrate Jean’s defenses, but it wasn’t meant for that—merely a warning shot to let her know she couldn’t boss Psylocke around.

The psi-bolt didn’t bother Jean at all. In fact, Jean showed no sign of even noticing it. Then Betsy was swamped, _dwarfed _by a psychic volley that hit her like she was suddenly at the bottom of the ocean. Her ears popped. She lost all psychic awareness, even the feeling of her psi-blades at her fingertips. At that moment, she might as well have been powerless in the face of Jean’s onslaught.

No. Phoenix. She was dealing with the Phoenix.

“I don’t like your tone of voice and I don’t care for the way you spoke to me. You must learn to treat your betters with more respect,” Jean said, unblinking. She took her hands out from behind her back and showed herself to be holding a thin birch cane—holding its handle in one gloved hand, she patted the business end in the palm of the other. A cruel sneer distorted her ruby lips. “You’ll pay for that indiscretion now. And don’t wake my husband. I’m sure he needs his sleep after satisfying a whore like you.”


	9. Chapter 8

Peter breathed hard, sweat covering his body, his manhood sore and aching. He’d been this tired before, this worn out, but only in battle, fighting the kind of guys who gave Thor a hard time. Not this.

Mary Jane had always had an impressive appetite and Wanda was a mutant, a superhero too, so naturally her stamina would give Olympic athletes a run for their money, but still…

He could only conclude that Wanda had been deprived far, _far _too long of the kind of treatment a woman of her beauty should merit. And seeing her receive it at long last had inspired Mary Jane to new heights of… _goddamn… _he’d never had this much fun being sore before.

Wanda was breathing hard too. She was not so much exhausted as overwhelmed. She’d had Mary Jane to help her, take over for her when Peter was becoming too much for her to take, but now she almost regretted not taking the full force of Peter’s passion. She looked yearningly at how Peter and Mary Jane’s naked bodies fit together, a perfect contrast in his scarred, muscular flesh and her pale, freckled skin—Peter like armor protectively wrapped around her.

Wanda still felt like she was on the brink of orgasm, trembling all over. She reached out to run her fingertips over Peter’s sculpted arm, with the raised keloid notches of scar tissue where bullets or knives had left their mark, and followed the well-developed bicep down to the tender underbelly of Mary Jane’s body, feverishly warm and sweetly sweaty.

Mary Jane might’ve been experienced with Peter’s lovemaking, but she was by no means used to it. Wanda could see it in her eyes—a vacant gaze, a spacey smile, like she was lost in the pleasure Peter’d given her, yet was ineffably proud of having taken it, provoked his lust. And with Wanda watching, joining in, sharing everything with them and witnessing just how special it was. Mary Jane shuddered, as if she were still feeling the aftershocks of her last climax, and then her eyes focused on Wanda and she smiled at her, clearly pleased with both how well Wanda had taken Peter’s cock and how she eventually hadn’t proven its equal.

“How’d you like my husband?” MJ asked mischievously, knowing the reaction she could get, knowing perhaps even the fond tremors that would go through Wanda’s sex as she was prompted to remember just what she’d done with Peter.

Wanda nodded, too overcome to speak, but taking a deep breath that swelled out her dusky breasts, the sweat on them shimmering, like sand on a tropical beach caressed by the surf. But as if totally ignorant of just how alluring she herself was, she ran her hand over the glowing heat that radiated from their joined bodies, her touch awestruck as it ran over Mary Jane’s breast and then Peter’s forearm which cradled it.

“How’d you like more of my husband?” Mary Jane teased, writhing luxuriously against Peter, enjoying the feeling of his erection growing in response to her sinuous movement, even if it wasn’t meant for her this time.

Wanda quickly nodded. It was a revelation to her that she wanted to be with them again more than she wanted to be with Vision—that she wanted someone other than her ex-husband, that she wanted someone, that she wanted when once she could barely even exist—but Wanda squelched that thought. She felt blissfully unimportant. All her trials and tribulations mattered little when she could be an extension of their perfect life for even a few moments more.

Mary Jane pried Peter’s hand away from her body, his wedding band burnished gold on his slender finger, and she moved his arm so that he was feeling Wanda, they both were, husband and wife moving their joined hands over Wanda’s small brown nipples and along the fertile plains of her stomach. Wanda could feel the warmth of their touch in her womb, her childless belly. She wondered idly how much probability would need to be altered for her thoughtless birth control to be gone, banished from the recent past to let her have a family—bearing them a child like some third parent in whatever exotic society featured magicians and mutates—but she exiled the idea from her mind. Much as it blazed in her in its few brief moments of life.

Peter and Mary Jane’s hands separated—Mary Jane feeling one of her thighs, Peter the other. Wanda simpered, squeezing her eyes shut, holding back tears. Why’d it have to feel so good? She thought this would just be an obligation. Now it was like she’d been given a glimpse of Paradise and told she wouldn’t be allowed inside. And yet, she wanted to keep looking. She was addicted. No, she was starving. A bite of food would paradoxically extend her suffering, yet how could she say no to it?

Mary Jane, for all her insight, didn’t see how deeply buried Wanda’s feelings were. She tantalizingly stroked the strong nerves of Wanda’s inner thighs. “I think I could pimp out Peter to you for a little while longer, if you make it worth our while. Maybe do the dishes. Make the bed. That sort of thing. And I have this French maid outfit that should fit you—“

Wanda knew MJ was joking, but that still sounded—so good. Domestic but decadent. Traditional, yet very much naughty. Dirty and wholesome all at once. She was too turned on by the thought to deny herself.

“Can he do it?” she asked Mary Jane. “One more time? He has to be completely exhausted. For the… for the ritual.”

Wanda was sure she had ruined it—sure that suspicion would curdle Mary Jane’s face at any moment—but the door pounded with shocking force then, the side of the hand, like a cop.

Mary Jane grabbed her robe up. “I’ll get rid of them. Peter, take her to the bedroom. And Wanda, why don’t you try sucking him off? He really is delicious and if you’re not going to do the dishes…”

Before Wanda could respond—explain that it had been almost a joke—Peter picked her up, carrying her forcefully over the clothes scattered across the floor. Wanda gave in. It was clear neither of them would mind her being ravished once more and she needed it. She’d needed so many things she’d been denied and this she needed more than any of them and if she could just get it, if she could have this one need met, then she could suffer all the others in her usual silence. But she needed to drink from the oasis before she returned to the desert.

On some level, Peter felt how important this was to Wanda. His sluggish brain couldn’t tell him if it was the ritual or something she needed or just his own wanting body projecting on her, but after Mary Jane had suggested Wanda blow him, every blood cell in his body surged into his cock, readying it to have those warm wet lips wrapped around it. His anticipation was so great that sheer contrariness argued against it, a momentary uneasiness at this not being his wife, but Mary Jane had encouraged it, cheered it on, poured enthusiasm into the sex until he’d made love to Wanda as easily as if they were married and not him and MJ.

Habit led him to the bedroom, as if he were taking Mary Jane there, but when he faced the bed, lit by the glow of the city, the shadows of raindrops flowing over its white linen—the bed he shared with Mary Jane—he hesitated. No matter how comfortable Mary Jane was with it, should he want someone who wasn’t his wife? Wasn’t it still cheating, even if MJ approved of it? In some mythological perfect marriage, shouldn’t he be desperately unattracted to any other woman, as disinterested in Wanda as he would be in a poodle? Mary Jane was the only woman for him—so why did he want another so badly?

_Damnit, Parker, can’t you reschedule the anxiety attack for once in your life? _Then his eyes caught on the door to the laundry room and he pushed Wanda inside, closing the door behind them. As wild as their sex lives had been, he and Mary Jane had never actually done it in there. It felt odd to be christening the room with Wanda, perverse, but a kind of perverse he could live with. He lifted Wanda up and sat her on the dryer, putting her at the perfect height for him to enter.

“I thought you were going to put it in my mouth,” Wanda said in her vivacious accent, sounding a little disappointed, but also pleasingly excited by the new turn of events. She folded her legs coquettishly. “Mary Jane said it was delicious.”

Peter straightened her legs and spread her thighs. “It’ll taste a lot better after you come all over it,” he promised her.

***

Grabbing Peter’s jacket from the hall tree and throwing it over her already robed body, Mary Jane went to the peephole. After how intimate things had gotten with Wanda, the interruption had her feeling exposed. She wouldn’t have felt comfortable even in a hijab. Mary Jane promised herself that even if it was a Publisher’s Clearinghouse Check for a million dollars, she would be getting rid of them as rapidly as possible, only for her to pull the guard aside to see that there was nothing through the peephole, nothing outside in the hall.

_What a fucking time for a juvenile delinquent, _Mary Jane swore inside her head. She shed Peter’s jacket, telling herself they’d make the most of it. Maybe Wanda would be interested in a few toys, or even be persuaded to stay the night. The weather outside _was_ frightful, as Bing Crosby said. And in the morning, maybe…

Mary Jane shook her head. Talk about being over-domestic! Once she’d fucked her way through the Soho district, now she couldn’t have a one-night stand without trying to recruit _the Scarlet Witch _into a ménage a trois? The sex did seem to be good for her and it wasn’t too bad on Mary Jane’s end either, but Wanda was _an Avenger. _Surely, she could do better than sharing another woman’s husband. Even if, Mary Jane thought with a bit of evangelizing pride, husbands didn’t come much better than Peter Parker. _Who knows? Maybe in one of those parallel universes, I’m sharing Peter with Gwen. Or, God forbid, Felicia. _

Suddenly, Mary Jane felt like she’d been plunged into a nightmare. Her heart raced. Tears came to her eyes. She felt the bleakest possible sense of dread, of despair and fright, like everyone she’d ever loved was in danger. She’d been around the block enough times to recognize a psychic attack, maybe even an attempt at possession. Grasping the amulet Wanda had given her, Mary Jane thought at it as fervently as she could. _C’mon, magic feather, do something, DO SOMETHING._

Darkness was engulfing her, the strength draining from her body. Then, with a rush of adrenaline, she felt a sense of power. Anger. Strong-willed, invincible—she could do anything!

“Get out of my head!” Mary Jane barked, slamming her hand against the door, and her words were so vehement that the spirits that had attacked her soul went howling away from the fortress her mind had become.

Only it wasn’t Mary Jane’s mind anymore.

The strength of her ancestors had brought a wielder with it.

“I had thought my mortal body destroyed in battle,” she said, opening her robe to examine the flawless flesh underneath. “But this skin carries neither my blood nor another’s. And this place surely cannot be in Koth. Where has Red Sonja found herself now?”


	10. Chapter 9

Betsy started to get out of bed, intent on physically confronting Jean, but psychic force gripped her hair and dragged her back down, throwing her on her stomach on the bed. Jean approached, dragging her birch cane up Betsy’s leg and finally to her bare mound. Betsy whimpered and turned her head to see what was happening.

“Listen, Jean…”

‘Quiet, bitch,” Jean ordered, still playing the cane between Betsy’s thighs.

“You don’t have to hurt me,” Betsy keened, looking pleadingly up at Jean.

“Cunt.” Jean raised the cane high. “Fucking man-hungry cunt!” she spat venomously, before letting the cane fall strongly across Betsy’s raised ass.

“_Hhhhha!” _Betsy cried in pain, writhing on top of the bed she’d shared with Scott.

Her outcry only made Jean lift the cane again, and bring it down even more sharply on the tender flesh of Betsy’s ass. Betsy screamed, tears coming to her eyes, and Jean struck her again.

“What’s the matter? I thought you liked getting your ass smacked!” Jean said through clenched teeth. “Didn’t Scott do that for you? Didn’t he give you a nice spanking? If he didn’t, I will!”

Jean struck again and again with the thin cane, but no matter how much Betsy cried out, Scott would not awaken. Betsy’s full ass glowed red, welts appearing all across it, and Betsy writhed in pain as the stinging lashes continued to rain down on her.

“Please! Stop!” Betsy sobbed pitifully as the cane slashed her defenseless ass again and again. “Stop it! Please, don’t! Please!”

“What’s the matter? Aren’t I good enough for you? You liked one Summers well enough. What’s wrong with a Summers-Grey?”

The cane bit into Betsy’s exposed pussy, making her scream. Jean became all the more excited, sweat pouring from her tirelessly working body. Her pale skin glistened silver in the moonlight and her jade eyes were wide as she took in Betsy’s body twitching, straining to contain the pain Jean had inflicted on her. Betsy cried pitifully as Jean rubbed the end of the cane into her sensitive pussy, then she moaned bitterly as Jean brought the cane down cruelly between her buttocks.

The bitingly intense quickening of pain that Betsy felt reminded her of when Scott had taken her ass, stretching and spreading her until she’d opened up to him as much as he wanted. The pain had been almost sweet then, and somehow this felt a little like it, tingling the same way once the initial hurt had faded. Betsy didn’t know what it meant that her pussy felt tight and wet as much as sore.

Jean comfortably perched herself in a rocking chair in the corner, stretching out and comfortably draping her leg over an armrest. She laughed cruelly as Betsy took in her open thighs, seeing that now she wore crotchless panties, exposing her bright red thatch of pubic hair. She’d heard that once, as the Phoenix, Jean had been powerful enough to alter molecules. She’d had no idea Jean was still that powerful.

“Take a good look at my pussy,” Jean said. “You’re going to eat it, slave. Yes, you’re going to taste my cunt—taste my hot, juicy cream when I come all over that pretty face.”

Betsy blanched, forcing her eyes away from the sight of Jean’s wet cunt staring her in the face. Enjoyment—Jean had enjoyed ripping her ass to pieces with that cane.

“I’ll never do that. I won’t ever eat your pussy!” Betsy frowned.

“Let’s not pretend you’re one for vows, Betsy. You just helped Scott break his. Why should yours be any different?”

Jean flicked the cane, but only in gesture. It was her tremendous power that picked Betsy up and dashed her against the wall. The impact throbbed red in Betsy’s vision and she fell to the floor, face-down. Then she felt a sharp pain in her back. It was Jean, digging her pointed heel into Betsy’s spine.

“How do you like being under my heel, slave?” Jean asked, smiling wickedly. “That’s right where you belong—being ground underfoot!”

“You don’t have to do this. Please, this isn’t you, you don’t want to do this!” Betsy pleaded, her face contorted in an agonized grimace, tears streaming down her cheeks now, like the pain had fully opened the floodgates.

Jean ignored her totally, like Betsy was less than nothing to her. Instead, she slammed her foot down right next to Betsy’s face. Betsy saw her distorted reflection cringing in the polished black leather of Jean’s boots.

“Kiss it, slave. _Kiss my foot.”_

Betsy couldn’t believe that Jean could be so sadistic. No matter what the situation, she was still an X-Man, a superhero! She was going to make one last-ditch effort to remind Jean of that when the cane fell evilly across her shoulders. The pain was unbearable. Betsy had to give into Jean’s insane demand. She flicked her tongue out, dragging it over the toe of Jean’s boot. It made her sick to her stomach, but she didn’t want to give Jean any more excuse to whip her than she already had.

Jean let out a high-pitched laugh. “Such a pretty little tongue. No wonder Scott was tempted by it. But that’s enough fun for now. Scott and I are man and wife—flesh of my flesh. And since you so _enthusiastically _pleasured him, slave, now you get to taste my sweet pussy. Come on. Get up here and worship my cunt, you lucky little bitch.”

Betsy raised herself painfully onto her knees. “No… no, I won’t do that! You can’t make me!”

“I can’t? Betsy, I could make it so your one and only goal in life was to place your tongue in my pussy. But I’d rather you chose to do it. I’d rather you made a decision between the cane and my cunt and you lived with that decision for the rest of your life. Eat it. Eat my pussy, slave!” Jean commanded.

Jean grabbed her by the hair. She dragged Betsy along with her to the chair, where she sat down and pulled Betsy’s face into her wet sex.

“Lick my pussy real good or you can taste my cane instead.” She rubbed Betsy’s mouth in her pussy, forcing the smell and taste upon Betsy’s senses. “Do it now!”

The cane descended again and again on Betsy’s naked back. The pain was too much for Betsy. She refused to surrender, but—if she conserved her strength, later she could use it against Jean. Resignedly, she lowered her face between Jean’s legs and ran her tongue along Jean’s slit.

As soon as her tongue touched Jean’s sex, aroused juices leaked out of the opening. The physical response hit so quickly that Betsy was shocked by the sudden wetness on her tongue.

“Yeah! Lick my pussy, slave! Fuck yes!”

Jean held Betsy to her groin, rubbing her slick labia into Betsy’s mouth, luxuriating in the ecstasy of Betsy sucking worshipfully at her cunt. She wiggled her hips joyfully as Betsy, frightened and naked, serviced her devotedly. She enjoyed dominating her husband’s mistress, and as Betsy pleasured her more and more, Jean rewarded her efforts by bringing the cane down on her back.

As it cracked against her flesh, Betsy redoubled her efforts and Jean cackled, relishing her power, savoring the submission she’d driven Betsy to. Betsy’s desperate attempts to please her increased the pressure building in her sex and her pussy clenched on Betsy’s tongue as it went in and out of her.

Jean let her head drift back as she savored Betsy’s tongue inside her; Betsy chanced a look up at Jean. She was stunned to see Jean was touching herself, rubbing her full breasts and pinching her nipples, with a dreamy, heated look on her face as she was immersed in pleasure. Betsy lowered her eyes again, seeing Jean’s stomach muscles clenching and relaxing with Jean’s writhing, and then she saw just how wet Jean’s pussy was. It simmered with pure liquid lust.

“My clit! Suck my clit, slave! That’s what I want and my slave does everything I want!” Jean demanded, wrenching Betsy’s head to where she wanted it by the hair. Betsy’s sucking mouth went directly over her clitoris.

Betsy whimpered, willing to do anything to avoid having more pain added to what she already felt. Reluctantly, she nudged her tongue against Jean’s stiffened clit. It twitched and jumped against her lips, as if forcing the taste of Jean’s lustfully churning juices into Betsy’s mouth. Betsy resisted the urge to gag at the strange taste; she would have to gorge herself on it if she didn’t want Jean shredding her to ribbons. She tickled the redhead’s clit with fluttering wiggles of her tongue, using the very tip to jostle Jean’s button this way and that.

“Yes. Yes. There’s plenty of wet pussy for you to eat, ‘Bets.’ No wonder Scott fucked your face—you have such a wicked tongue!”

Jean was one to talk. Her pussy hair was soaked with her juices. _She’s hot as hell, _Betsy thought as she dragged her tongue over Jean’s sex, rubbing it against Jean’s throbbing clit at the end.

But she was feeling warm herself. Betsy tried to fight off what was happening inside her, but it was unmistakable. She was tight, wet, tingling deep in her pussy. She didn’t know how it was possible that eating Jean’s cunt was turning her on, but it was still somewhat better than getting caned anymore. Betsy tried to put those weird thoughts in the back of her mind as she sucked Jean’s clit, but she couldn’t help but notice how much louder Jean was moaning. The cunnilingus she was receiving was more eager than before—almost hungry. And Betsy felt a sense of pride welling in her as she turned Jean on.

Her hands skirted Jean’s slender waist, coming around her body to grip Jean’s ass. With that handhold in place, she almost forced herself down on Jean’s pussy, sucking at her clit and licking up her juices as she did her best to satisfy the other woman.

“Oh! Oh! _Hhhn!” _Jean panted, her pussy near-boiling. She bounced in her seat, pressing her sex hard into Betsy’s tongue. “Yes! You wonderful little bull dyke bitch! You really know what—you’re fucking doing—my little—slave—lezbo!”

Betsy worked feverishly to bring Jean off. Her tongue slid deep inside of Jean, then eagerly licked its way out. Then, with a perverse gentleness, she took Jean’s cuntlips between her teeth and pulled at the tender flesh.

For a moment, she was afraid that she’d hurt Jean, bring her wrath down upon herself, but Jean obviously loved it. She gasped ecstatically and rolled her hips against Betsy’s face, Betsy taking her satisfaction as approval of what she was doing.

Betsy found that she was satisfied herself with how she was pleasing Jean, pleasuring her. She didn’t know she’d had it in her to be such an expert at cunnilingus. Her lips returned to Jean’s clit, wrapping around it, pulling on it until it slurped out of her mouth and snapped back to Jean’s womanhood. Jean responded enthusiastically to this fresh stimulation, panting for breath in such a well-pleasured way that it excited Betsy, goaded her on.

“Yes! Yes! Oh! That’s… so good, yes! Yes, you slave bitch, _yes!”_

Jean jerked around on the chair, pounding her fists on the armrests, but she let Betsy do as she wished so long as it continued to please her. Instead of giving instructions, she lay back to enjoy Betsy’s mouth, twitching and jerking and moaning as Betsy went down on her. It amazed Betsy how much she enjoyed Jean’s enjoyment.

“Mmmm! Hha! Yes! God—fuck!” Jean grunted, obscene delight drawing words and sounds out from her in equal amount as she relished having her pussy eaten so eagerly, so expertly. Her hips were moving faster now, rubbing desperately against Betsy’s tonguing. She was reaching a plateau and Betsy was sucking her even harder, almost voraciously. “_Ohhh! _Nn! Eat my cunt, you slut! Worship my pussy! Lick it, lick up my cream! I-I-I’m… going to—_fuck! YES!”_

Jean’s climax washed over her, her burning desire flaring to an inferno as she drove her hips into Betsy’s sucking mouth, trying to fill her cunt with what Betsy was doing to her. Her clit throbbed, even more full of lust than the rest of her.

It turned Betsy on, how vehemently Jean came. It was perverse, degrading, but still it filled her with a heat she’d never known before. She felt proud of getting Jean off—Jean was so powerful, so sexual, that it seemed like a major accomplishment to bring her to this immense orgasm. And hearing Jean curse and moan heightened her own passion. Betsy sucked dutifully at Jean’s clit as the redhead trembled through her lovely climax, not thinking once of the cane Jean had threatened her with.

Jean gasped, moaned, sighed as she felt every wonderful thrill that Betsy’s mouth could offer her. Then her taut muscles loosened. She collapsed back into the rocking chair. Without thinking, Betsy placed a final, worshipful kiss on Jean’s mound, which it felt like she’d been servicing for an eternity. Then Betsy sat back on her haunches, looking almost unbelievably up at Jean. The redhead’s eyes were closed, her nostrils flaring as she breathed deeply. Betsy needed no psychic power to see on Jean’s face how she luxuriated in the ultimate release she’d just experienced.

As Betsy stared, awestruck, at Jean’s haughtily beautiful face, she tried to resolve her conflicted emotions. In the space of minutes, she had gone from the proud, powerful woman she knew herself to be into an eager and willing sex slave, actually enjoying being forced by Jean to fulfill her perverted desires. Was Betsy ashamed of her slutty behavior? She couldn’t even understand it. But as Betsy stared at Jean’s contented face—the rapture that had it more majestic than ever—she felt the beginnings of an idea.

Jean was more than just a woman. She was a goddess. Her every cell permeated with the Phoenix’s power, Jean was at the absolute peak of human potential—a sexual deity who enjoyed greater rapture, deeper passions, longer satisfaction than Betsy could possibly imagine. The simple supremacy of her was proudly displayed in what she’d shared with Betsy; the naturally domineering side of her that was usually suppressed, or at least private. But she’d allowed Betsy a glimpse of her true nature. And Betsy had managed to satisfy it somewhat.

Betsy didn’t know if anything else in her life could be as meaningful as being a slave to Jean Grey.


	11. Chapter 10

Betsy awoke feeling like an addict who’d missed a fix, her body quivering, craving, actually wanting back the feeling of submission that had come to her in her dream. She shook her head, telling herself it wasn’t real.

Scott was in the bed with her, his perfect body somehow real. Betsy traced her fingers over the bare flesh, the firm muscle, careful not to wake him—not yet. She wanted to enjoy having him in her bed a while longer. Giving into her desire for him was all the submission she needed. Who cared about some wet dream when reality was a dream come true?

Betsy slipped down his body, not stopping until her head was at his crotch. His cock was rock-hard. A sensual dream? A sleeping appreciation of sharing her bed? Or was he thinking of Jean? Betsy pursed her lips, squeezing them around his erect shaft. Whatever it was, she’d make sure he was thinking only of her.

For the next several minutes, she bobbed her head on his erection—slowly, not wanting to wake him, but wanting his dreams to be of her… and as pleasurable as could be imagined. But she couldn’t deny her urges forever, not when they’d just started to be met. She devoured him furiously then, taking his cock so deep into her frantically gulping mouth that she nearly choked herself. Scott groaned, the vibrations of his quickening heartbeat throbbing in his manhood, pulsating in Betsy’s mouth as all his delicious muscles tensed.

She no longer cared what he was dreaming of. All that mattered was that his churning cum ended up as hers. Already she could taste its delectable flavor as precum washed over her tongue. Only a few seconds longer and the thick, creamy load boiling inside his scrotum would be filling her mouth instead. Not even Scott could practice self-restraint in his sleep.

Hard to begin with, Scott’s prick became a pulsating monolith in her mouth, her throat. When it finally spurted—thick, heady cum stuffing her gullet—Betsy let out a muffled gurgle, her body rocking with the sumptuous pleasure of accepting his seed. She sucked and pulled with all the strength in her mouth, caring only for getting every fertile drop of Scott’s jizz, spreading it over her tongue and swallowing it down still hot.

It took a long time, but she sucked him completely dry. Only then did Betsy pull her mouth away, her gasping breath as hot on Scott’s groin as her tongue had been, pungent to her own nostrils with the flavor of his cream. She licked his still-bloated balls and his muscular stomach, tongue tracing the lines between his abs.

The ecstasy she’d felt in tasting and swallowing his seed ebbed. Betsy closed her eyes and sank her mouth back down his half-hard length, reviving it a little. She breathed deeply through her nose and left every thought behind until there was only the feel of Scott in her mouth and the lingering taste of his cum.

She went back to sleep, her mouth still in possession of Scott’s manhood.

***

Sonja pulled the jacket she wore—her jacket?—more tightly around her. It was cold in here, wherever she was. Dampness in the air. Winter. Her breath wanting to be seen as it came out of her mouth. Clothes helping with the chill in the air. Normally, she’d rather go without than be encumbered with such heavy, flowing clothing, but it warmed her and there was no danger in this place’s atmosphere. No violence. It felt… cozy. Safe.

She recognized a little of it—the strange future world she had visited on rare occasions, so very different from Tarim or Zingara that there was no mistaking it. She knew enough at least to know she was inside one of their dwelling places—the door she stood at would eventually take her outside.

It would be colder outside, snow and ice, peopled undercurrents she had no sense for and guards with their blue cloth armor and fireworks in their hands and strange ideas of keeping the peace. Even in the highest city of Zamboula, a guard could usually be trusted to mind his own business. If someone needed killing and a killing was given, he’d not allow it to bother him. But this distant time was too civilized to be civil. She didn’t want to chance it, especially not in this weather that assaulted even their palaces of ‘air conditioning’ and ‘central heating.’

Instead, she would find what wizard had cast the spell to bring her here and demand an explanation. Someone had thought to beckon her like a dog and putting them in their place was too satisfying a prospect to ignore.

She moved through the ‘apartment,’ trying to see it through eyes native to this time. Sonja could feel an alien intuition at work in her. She was not in her own body, but one much like it, an unmarred beauty, if lacking in muscle. The former inhabitant was still with her and that gave Sonja a sixth sense for her surroundings.

By her own standards, the apartment was fit for a king, a jeweled oasis in a desert of hard traveling and harder taverns. But in this world, it was much the same as living rough. Cramped. Messy. The kind of quarters a sellsword would be quick to leave behind to guard a caravan and be bedded at a purpled merchant’s coin.

Sonja extended her senses. She could feel the pride someone took in this locale—the cleanliness and maintenance that waged war with its shabbiness—and in its reaches, someone breathing hard. Sonja’s skin tingled with nervous anticipation. She cautiously moved deeper into the interior, drawn to her fellow inhabitants, somehow feeling she had to find them. If this was an enemy, let the fight be upon her. If they were friend, let them prove it. She was in no sporting mood.

She felt like she had awoken on a precipice and now she was falling into the depths of this new world. Her eyes were wide as she took in the smell of sex, the discarded clothes. No, this apartment wasn’t messy, it had been made a mess—things dropped and overturned and pushed aside in the heat of passion.

Sonja could not have sex. It went against her vow to the goddess, could only be acceptable if she lost in battle, and that went against her soul. So the movement of naked flesh became enormous in her mind—shocking—monstrous—and for all her experience, she was reduced to a breathless virgin, imagining the prurient, intense movements that were denied her.

She went through a doorway and into the hall. She thought she was going to faint. There, a few feet away, in what her numbed brain called a laundry room, was man and woman, nakedly locked together, violently enrapt in each other.

Sonja couldn’t move, staring transfixed at the heated mating, shock after shock demanding the cries from her silently screaming brain. She recognized Peter and something told her that he was hers. She didn’t know the woman, but she wasn’t Mary Jane, and something told her that she belonged there.

She tried to tell herself that her reaction was only her host body, its second memories, the dream within a dream, but the woman was indeed beautiful. Statuesque, with dusky skin and dark, exotic features. Slender, pert, pretty, her figure that of a princess, breasts and backside to ensnare any man. _Wanda—_the thought drifted into Sonja’s mind.

She had seen enough couplings on the street and heard them through thin tavern walls to not much envy those who were not chaste. This was as crude, as hard, as fast as any woman who’d been taken like a dog, almost rapine. Sonja had also known enough tavern wenches and harem ladies to recognize whoring. This wasn’t that. All such women, whatever the land, had a shrewd calculation quickly beaten into them, a calculation which never left their cold, mercenary eyes no matter the stage of seduction.

Wanda did not have that. Mouth open, eyes rolling, she appeared to be an insatiable slut in truth, not just artifice. Like Peter really was pleasuring her as much as himself—Sonja had not known many men like that. Conan, for one, and though athletic, the whelp did not have his thews. Yet the woman appeared so overwhelmed, so deep in ecstasy, that she might have been mating with a horse.

She sat on whatever a ‘washing machine’ was, her legs wide apart, Peter standing between them, his naked body glistening with hers in the illumination of a bare lightbulb hanging above. Peter rhythmically thrust into her, battering down Wanda as the storm would sink a ship, but as his muscles hardened and his buttocks clenched and Wanda’s legs thrust out behind him like she was making salute with them, Sonja was reminded more of a dance.

Both the courtly, artistic dances of high seduction and the primal, beat-worshipping dances of the most primitive cannibals. Peter was not simply venting his lust into her, much as it looked like that was what he was doing. He was performing a spell to summon her pleasure, and pouring all his body and soul into it.

Sonja blinked her eyes, for some reason not wanting to believe what she was seeing, and yet it was so clear to her. She wanted to run, to flee from this obscene sight and the feelings it stirred up to see a beautiful woman in rapture that she could never know, but her legs wouldn’t move—she couldn’t even try to make them work. It was like an invisible force held her, making her a part of the selfsame tableau she watched.

Liquid was suddenly running down Wanda’s widespread loins, her womanhood convulsing as she wantonly bucked into the driving lunges of Peter’s member. He threw his head back, bobbing it with gritted teeth as he took in a tightness and a pressure that Sonja could only imagine: “Yes! YES! You’re incredible, Wanda!”

Sonja had fought gods and demons, but these images forced their way into her mind, planting themselves in her memory for what she knew would be years to come. She saw the reddened darkness of Wanda’s pubic hair, parted by the engorgement of Peter’s cock as it rammed in and out of her well-ravished cunt. She could even see Wanda’s clitoris, large and throbbing, responding to Peter’s thrusts as he went deep into her eagerly writhing sex. She heard, loud as gongs, Peter’s heavily-laden balls slapping against the smoothly rounded globes of Wanda’s buttocks. When he pulled back, his hard endowment forced her tightly clasping folds out with him, and then they rolled inward again as he thrust back into her.

Wanda moaned constantly, as if eternally surprised by her own ravaging, her head swiveling from side to side to make a veil of her long, auburn hair. It was only too clear how much she loved played the whore with Peter. No woman was that good an actress.

Her eyes glazed over more than they already were as Wanda was transported to a plateau even higher than the one she’d been on. Coming. She was coming and Peter was nowhere near done with her. “Peter! _Gawd! _I love it! I love _you! _I love you so much!”

Sonja tried to avert her eyes, ashamed of how the sight was affecting her, but once more she was powerless. Her gaze held on Peter’s firmly muscled ass, watching it tighten and relax as he pistoned into Wanda’s tight little cunt. Sonja watched closely, examining his cock in disbelief. She was truly shocked by how large he was, how virile. Wanda should be screaming in pain, taking an enormous cudgel like that one, but instead she wanted more. She had the looks of a pure maiden, yet here she was, desperate to be brutalized even harder!

Sonja tried to move again, knowing no good could come of envying this woman her lechery—that she was growing as coarse and aggravated as a dog in heat, the salacious vision working on her like all the dancing girls in Kamula become one. Her legs trembled… the bud of her clitoris was full of arousal… she had the perverse desire to reach down between her quivering thighs and emulate the usage Peter was putting Wanda to.

Her head spun with that urge and still viler ones, as this rutting struck a chord in her borrowed memory, provoking a darkly exciting remembrance, as though she were doubly out of body, watching herself in the brunette’s place, impossibly knowing how it felt to be wench instead of warrior.

_Damn her… if only the slut would show some sign of pain… how could she be enjoying that massive prick without any pain?_

“More, more!” Wanda groaned loudly, her whole body jiggling ripely as she took Peter’s stalwart cock. “You’re so big! So hard! Feels so good when you’re—_rhhh—_tearing me apart! Quick, put your finger in my ass! Fuck my ass! You can fuck my ass too!”

Her words stabbed into Sonja, teasing, arousing, taunting, little shocks of pleasure going through the redhead just hearing them. Her attention was pulled even more into their wild rut, as surely as if she were being stretched on the rack.

Trembling like a vestal virgin instead of a battle-hardened swordswoman, Sonja stared at Wanda’s tightly puckered asshole, barely able to believe what she was seeing as Peter pushed his middle finger into it, snaking the first knuckle into that forbidden space. She had heard of men taking women in such a way, but had never imagined a woman might enjoy it, much less ask for it. Yet Wanda begged for more!

“Ooooh, YES! Feels so good in my ass! Deeper! Now, now, now!”

Sonja’s perverted curiosity dwarfed her horror as she watched Peter’s finger slide into Wanda’s anus, deeper and deeper, following the tempo his cock set as it pistoned into her moistly quivering sex. Sonja felt as if she could feel the fiery penetration herself, the imagining shocking her legs into motion, but not as she’d once wished.

Instead, she stepped closer to their mating, and closer—deeper into the barbaric act of lovemaking, the crude sight becoming indistinguishable from clearing memory. It was like she was seeing Peter through Wanda’s eyes, remembering how Peter’s long, hard cock felt, so good, so romantic, everything so pleasurable for Mary Jane that she hoped this was it, the night Peter made her a mother, because that was the only way it could be more perfect…

Peter wrenched Wanda up from the laundry machine and slammed her into the wall adjoining the door, a load-bearing wall that nonetheless creaked as he fucked her against it. “I’m gonna come!” Peter gritted out, teeth clenched.

Wanda’s slitted eyes widened in panic. “I don’t know if—I can—take anymore—you’re so big—come so hard—“

“You can,” Peter husked, lifting her legs up until her knees nearly touched her shoulders, totally opening her to the climactic thrusts he gave her. “You will!”

Sonja could see more of Wanda’s honey descending her splayed sex. She was amazed Wanda was capable of speech when her loins were in such turmoil. Peter pressed himself into her, buried himself in her, holding her against the wall without an inch of space left.

“You will!” Peter repeated as he cried out in release, emptying the first shot of his heavy load into the depths of Wanda’s pussy. Though his cock was fully sheathed inside of Wanda, there was an inch at the base that Sonja imagined simply could not fit within the woman lest her cervix be violated, and that inch pulsated and throbbed with angry life. Sonja gasped, thinking of what the entire length was doing, how it must be showering the inside of Wanda’s body with its eruption.

Wanda screamed until her face grew slack and silent, lost in a thundering cataclysm of need and relief. The foaming excess of Peter’s barrage ran back out of Wanda’s splayed cunt, as if a pillar candle had melted all at once. Sonja’s sworn vow disappeared from her mind. She wished more than anything that it was her in Wanda’s place. How fucking amazing it looked to share every drop of Peter’s orgasm. How delicious the stuff itself looked as it dripped from the pussy that was undoubtedly Peter’s now.

The ejaculation kept going, going, a deluge like the rainy season after a long drought. Wanda’s eyes rolled back in her head. Her chin dropped so low it seemed detached from her jaw. The woman appeared mindless, drunken, lungs billowing with opium smoke—no end to the pleasure Peter gave her and no room for thought in that perfect satisfaction. How Sonja envied her; a simpleton made innocent of knowing life’s vices and hardship. Only ecstasy existed for her in those long, sprawling moments.

There was only so much room in Wanda’s womanhood, and for every drop that flowed out of her, more poured in. She was filled to the brim and beyond, her belly swelling, _bulging, _as though she had stuffed herself with a king’s gluttony at some endless feast. Sonja thought Wanda would simply burst before Peter was finished, but of course, that sculpted body was too well-made for that.

Peter finished—Sonja could see that last threatening inch outside of Wanda’s sex grow still, if yet firm—and Wanda drooled, lips wobbling, tears of joy in her eyes as still she came, blessed with ecstasies that Sonja had not seen at the most depraved orgies, the most expensive whorehouses.

The unfairness of it stung Sonja. Was she not the greatest swordarm in the land? A slayer of armies, a hunter of monstrosities—amoral, surely, but having done more good for the innocent and the helpless than most churches, certainly most kings—and yet this slut, this random, unassuming _bitch _was granted pleasures that Sonja didn’t know the slightest measure of.

How could she deserve this and not Sonja? Why was Sonja here? Just to see what could not be hers, because surely Peter could not be as powerful in battle as he was here—he could not dominate Sonja in combat as he had dominated Wanda in wenching? No, she could not even chance damaging such a specimen in all-out combat.

Yet she felt instinctively that Peter was hers, that he belonged to her, from the scarce sweat that glistened on his body—he should be swimming in the stuff, the way he’d exerted himself, and yet it barely anointed him—to the seed he’d filled Wanda with until she bulged at the seams like an overfull wineskin.

“Thief!” she hissed, and was surprised to find her voice nearly gone, rasping hoarsely when it should be a bellow. She was panting, overexcited—as strained as if she’d been in the thick of battle, but with none of the satisfaction that came with victory.

Nevertheless, Peter heard her; if Wanda did, she gave no sign, being as dead to sound as she was to anything but her bliss. Peter turned his head and Sonja felt him scour her with his eyes, taking in the jacket and robe that she’d allowed to fall open carelessly, displaying her body in half-obscured grandeur. She was actually sweatier than he. Her body fairly glistened and it caught his eye as a jeweled bauble would attract a thief.

Now Wanda came to her senses—crying out in a pained bit of intrigue. Sonja’s eyes widened. Somehow, she gleamed what had happened. When Peter saw her, it caught his attention. And with him still inside Wanda, she felt his interest grow, even if it was no longer in her. So to speak.

“I can see you enjoy the sight of me. As does your woman.”

Peter lowered Wanda to the ground, his load slowly trickling free of her, the great remainder of it bulging out her belly. “I, ah… I don’t think I have any more for you, MJ…”

Sonja’s eyes flashed. “For me? It’s all for me! That is _mine!”_

Pushing past Peter, she stood over Wanda. Her foot came down on Wanda’s widened belly and she slowly put her weight down on it. If Wanda had woken up to Peter’s growth inside her, now she totally came back to her senses—feeling such a keen sense of relief as Sonja alleviated the burden of her stuffed belly that she moaned for it to keep going, Peter’s seed flooding out of her open cunt, the release making her lightheaded, pained and yet ecstatic, she moaned for even more, for Mary Jane to make her come, come, come, until the feeling had emptied her body of every emotion, every trace of pleasure, and she was gratifyingly empty, lying in a pool of Peter’s cum.

Peter looked at it all and thanked God that there was no carpeting in the laundry room.


End file.
